


Beyond the Gate and Straight Into a Midlife Crisis

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Comedy, Drama, Fantasy, Galaxy Quest Inspired, M/M, Mild Angst, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sylvix Big Bang (Fire Emblem), action adventure, mentions of alcohol use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 43,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26106769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: Ten years have passed since the abrupt end of the beloved cult classic Fire Emblem. Sylvain and Felix have about had it, slumming in the convention circuit, and most of all-- had it with each other. Exhausted by fandom, Sylvain's surprised one day by a costumed trio, requesting to hire him and the crew to save their people.Sylvain's never been the type to say no, least of all to his fans.Galaxy-Quest inspired AU.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 58
Kudos: 46
Collections: Sylvix Big Bang





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone and welcome to my Sylvix Big Bang fic! This fic has been an absolute fucking WILD RIDE, lemme tell you. 
> 
> I got to with with the AMAZING [Onionpax, who you can find linked here. ](https://twitter.com/OnionPax) I'm sprinkling their amazing art throughout the fic, but be sure to check out their twitter for the good quality stuff! 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who let me bounce ideas off of them, and scream into their inboxes for the last several months-- you know who you are, and you kept me sane. As I'm posting this, the entire first arc of the story is done, with part two coming within the next month or so. 
> 
> This was written with a general tone, so any of everyone can enjoy it-- even if you aren't familiar with the movie Galaxy Quest which inspired it. 
> 
> SO, without further ado, I present to you, Beyond the Gate and Straight Into a Midlife Crisis.

**_Prologue_ **

_“So this is the legendary blade.”_

_The sword was far heavier than the thin and light rapiers that Eliwood was used to, but the balance was near perfect. He held it aloft near his shoulder in a mock sword form before settling back._

_“Durandal, the sword of sacred fire,” Lyn said from his side. She wiped at her sweaty brow, smudging dirt across her cheek. She looked as tired as they all felt, after crawling through the belly of the earth to retrieve the sword._

_“It’s strange, isn’t it?” she continued, shuffling closer. “I’ve never seen it before and yet it feels so... familiar. Somehow.”_

_Eliwood turned back to Durandal, running his fingers alongside the thick flat of the cured steel. The leather-wrapped hilt felt right in his palm as his fingers curled around it._

_“I will use this to battle Nergal.”_

_For the first time in their long journey, Eliwood felt as though they actually had a shot, that they might actually stand a chance of saving Elibe and everyone in it. The threat of Nergal had weighed over them for far too long, but with this…_

_“Come!” Eliwood said, standing straight as he looked to the group around him. Lyn and Karel were the closest to his side, already alert the moment that he called out. “Let us go to the Dragon’s Gate!”_

_Eliwood whirled around with a twirl of his blue cape, arm held out dramatically as he looked off into the distance._

_Then there was a soft rumble, followed by a roar._

_“What was that?” Lyn asked, hand already thumbing the Mani Katti out of his sheath, her other hand flicking her grimy blonde hair away from her face._

_“It can’t be good,” Karel murmured, “whatever it is.”_

_“I--” Eliwood was interrupted by another roar, this time far closer. Durandal warmed in his hand, before burning with blazing might. “What? The sword it’s… It’s glowing--”_

_From the mountains, a mighty dragon flew into the valley. Its brilliant seafoam green scales glittered in the harsh sunlight as it let out another deafening roar, mouth open in a wide gape. It was massive and terrifying beyond compare._

_“It can’t be!” Eliwood breathed._

_Dragons were creatures of old, creatures of myth. They were stories told to children to scare them into behaving and yet…_

_“It’s a dragon,” Lyn whispered, her fingers curled tightly around the hilt of her sword._

_Even Karel, a man of extreme composure and a little bit of madness, seemed jarred. “How is this possible? How--”_

_Eliwood felt a tug, a yearning, an indescribable urge to move. His fingers tightened around the soft leather grip of his sword, as his other came to meet it. It wasn’t a form that he knew, but at the same time, he did know it. It felt familiar._

_“Get back!” he yelled, and then his feet moved, almost as if he couldn’t control them._

_The movement was oddly familiar and he felt no fear as he ran for the beast. The dragon roared in response, raising up on its hind legs, claws splayed wide as it began to reach out. Eliwood acted without thought; it was as if Roland himself were driving him._

_Durandal sliced through hardened scales like butter, a clean-cut, effortlessly made as though Eliwood had slain hundreds before it. The dragon staggered back and then swayed. Then it fell to the ground, chest heaving heavy breaths as it struggled to pull itself upright again. It failed, crashing to the soft earth as it let out a pitiful whine._

_“Eliwood, are you alright?” Karel was the first to reach him, sword ready but his stance wary. He carefully picked his way to Eliwood’s side, eyes on the dragon the entire time._

_“I… I think so,” Eliwood said. He glanced down at Durandal, eyes wide and mind reeling. He wasn’t sure what had happened. “It was as if the sword itself was guiding my arm,” he said, mouth parted in wonder._

_His arm still vibrated with energy and he could feel the blade crackling with it. The dragon was still alive, just barely, chest rising and falling and faltering. Durandal itched to finish the creature off once and for all, but Eliwood managed to hold it at bay._

_“The sword of sacred fire was made to fell dragons,” said another voice, old and frail with time. Their cadre turned to find that the archsage Athos had found them, having waited for them to finish their trial. “With so much power, who can say what it might be capable of.”_

_Athos stepped closer but veered towards the dragon instead._

_“Lord Athos!” Lyn said, moving to follow after him._

_Athos held out a hand and she paused. “This is an ice dragon,” he said. Then he frowned, concerned. “Surely not...”_

_Eliwood went to his side. “Is something the matter, Lord Athos?”_

_Athos did something that he didn’t often do; he hesitated for a long moment. “No,” he finally said. “No, I--”_

_“Let me be the one to answer that,” a disembodied voice said. A man warped before them, shrouded in flowing black robes with a red collar. His turban was wrapped around his head askew, but the eye that showed glinted with malice._

_Eliwood felt rage deep within his heart immediately. “Nergal, you blackheart!”_

_Nergal took a step forward and ran a hand down his robes, dusting them off after his travel. “Ninian proved utterly useless in the end,” Nergal said. He looked to the dragon, lips pulled into a dramatic pout as he sighed. “As such, I’ve come for a replacement. Nils, if you would?”_

_Eliwood had nearly forgotten that the boy was with them. The moment that Nergal waved his hand, Nils had materialized, face blank and mouth slack. Spelled it seemed, unseeing and unknowing to what was happening around them._

_“Nils!” Eliwood started but stopped when Nergal held a hand out._

_“Don’t waste your breath. He won’t be awake for some time.” Energy crackled at Nergal’s fingertips, dark and foreboding as his lips quirked into a satisfied smirk. “Nils will do for me what Ninian would not.”_

_They weren’t fools. Eliwood and his companions would hold and not engage, watching warily as they waited for Nergal to make the first move. He was far more powerful than them and it would be suicide to make hasty decisions._

_Still, Eliwood was angry._

_“Scum!” Eliwood yelled, standing his ground. “Where is she?”_

_The magic at hand dissipated, as Nergal cocked his head to the side, confused. Then he seemed to realize something and his face split into an evil-looking grin. He laughed, an ugly, baffling sort of screech as he threw his head back in madness._

_“Eliwood,” Karel murmured from his side, and Eliwood could already tell that he was calculating the best action to take. Eliwood held his hand out, telling him to stand down. Karel’s mouth twitched, but he did as he was told._

_“This is amusing,” Nergal said when he finally found himself. “Utterly amusing. I must admit, with as close as the two of you were, I didn’t realize that you had no idea. My mistake.”_

_Eliwood narrowed his gaze in confusion as anger rolled through him. “What have you done with her?”_

_“Oh, it’s not what I’ve done,” Nergal said to him. He thumbed at his chin, amused with the entire situation. “It’s what you have done, my dear Eliwood.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_Nergal stepped closer, his robes billowing around him. “Have you never once questioned it? The reason why I needed the siblings to open the Dragon’s Gate? Do you not remember the myths?”_

_Eliwood did remember; the Dragon’s gate could only be opened by dragons, or so the stories told. Eliwood’s heart pounded at the thought. “I don’t understand,” he said._

_“The answer is simple, Eliwood. Use that tiny little brain of yours and think. Why would a human be able to open a gate that was designed for dragons?”_

_“No,” Eliwood said, a lump forming in his throat. “No, that-- No.”_

_“It’s pitiful really,” Nergal sighed, casting a glance at the look of the dragon behind him. It was hanging on weakly and something like sadness flashed across his face. It seemed genuine, but then it was gone almost as soon as it had come._

_“Poor Ninian and her plight,” Nergal continued. “Coaxed by my honeyed words as she passed through the gate. I hadn’t seen her in so long. But then she refused to help me and wandered off lost and alone, only to be slain by the hand of the one that she loved.”_

_“You’re wrong,” Lyn said and Eliwood was thankful because he wasn’t sure that he could speak. “You must be wrong!”_

_Nergal scoffed at that. “Can you really not see it? Or is it that you are afraid to? Very well, I will say it very plainly.” He shuffled to the side, hand outstretched to gesture to the dragon. “The ice dragon here, the very one slaughtered by your hand Eliwood, is none other than Ninian herself. The girl who adored you, the girl who danced for you. The girl who, when she returned to her true form and lost all human memory, still found you._

_“You see, you above all else remained in her heart. She was mad with confusion, yet she still came here. She came to find you.”_

_Eliwood couldn’t breathe. His chest tightened in pain because he couldn’t dare think it. Ninian, the woman that he had loved, the woman that he had wanted to be with, whom he had promised._

_“Go on, take a look, little lordling. See what you have done.”_

_Eliwood was going to vomit. It took everything in his power to not drop Durandal and fall to the ground, to scream and yell, and to curse everything around him._

_“Ah,” Nergal said, turning fully to the dragon. “She is using the last of her strength to take human form one last time. There still may be time enough to say farewell.” He paused and his face slipped once more to allow a brief flash of sadness to show._

_“You know of course that you cannot possibly save her.” Nergal’s voice was quiet this time, out of character. Far away, almost._

_“Nergal, you foul demon!” Eliwood screamed._

_His words seemed to snap Nergal back to the present, the man’s face twisting into a look of amusement. “Not me, Eliwood, but you. You are the one who killed her.”_

_Eliwood couldn’t help the roar that ripped from his throat as he launched himself at Nergal, hands tight around Durandal as he brandished it. It was a foolish move, not well thought through, and Nergal must have expected it._

_“Not even the legendary blade can cause me harm!” Nergal exclaimed, smile widening as he laughed maniacally. He reached out to press a hand against Nils’ shoulder. Then he lifted the other and the air around him crackled with energy before turning hazy as the two of them melted away._

_“No!” Eliwood yelled, “No, I--”_

_“Calm down!” Karel snapped at him, reaching out to grab his arm. “He’s gone, Eliwood!” His grip tightened when Eliwood tried to pull away. “He’s already gone. Get a hold of yourself.”_

_“I-- I--”_

_There was a flash of light that drew everyone’s attention. The large form of the dragon started to shrink until a woman was left in its wake, clothing tattered and smudged with blood and dirt. Eliwood felt like the air had been punched straight from his lungs._

_Karel’s grip loosened as he sighed. “Go,” he said, his voice soft, pushing Eliwood away from him. “Go to her.”_

_Eliwood did. Durandal still buzzed in his hand, itching to slay, so he threw it to the ground and ran to Ninian. Even pale and weak and mudstained, barely holding on, she was beautiful. “Ninian,” he said to her, falling to his knees by her side, pressing his hands to either side of her face._

_“Lord Eliwood,” she choked out, mouth settling with blood. A thin stream dripped from her lips. Eliwood didn’t look down, he couldn’t, he knew the mess that lay there caused by his sword._

_“I’m here,” he said instead, stroking a thumb along her face softly as he trained his attention there. “Ninian, I’m here.”_

_“Eliwood,” she said, smiling at him weakly, gaze barely focused as she tried to focus on his face. He held her cheeks, trying to stay strong, but he couldn’t. He could already feel the tears welling up and threatening to spill._

_“Please don’t die,” Eliwood begged, voice hiccuping with a sob. “Ninian, what have I done?”_

_Ninian moved to cover his hand with her own. Her skin already felt cold, her grip around his palm weak. “I’m glad,” she said to him, serene like always, with the utmost grace. It was one of the things that he loved most about her. “That you are unharmed. I’m so glad.”_

_“Ninian,” Eliwood murmured, leaning closer, trying to remember her face and the way that she sounded. The soft way that her lashes brushed against her eyelids, or the rich color of her crimson eyes._

_“Eliwood, I…”_

_She never finished her thought, eyes fluttering closed as she went limp in his arms._

_“Ninian,” Eliwood said, panicked. He pulled back, shaking at her, trying to nudge her awake. “Ninian,” he said firmer. “No, Ninian, come on, darling please.”_

_His voice cracked because he knew it was too late. Tears started to slip down his face, and he felt his breath hitch and his lip wobble. “No, no, no,” he cried, leaning closer, pressing his forehead against hers._

_Eliwood could feel the others watching from a safe distance, but the only thing that mattered was the woman in his hands who’d breathed her last. He pulled her closer, pressing his face against her hair. She smelled like rain and ice and blood, and it only made him sob harder._

_Then he screamed. Eliwood yelled with rage and he screamed with agony as his heart broke over and over and over._

_Durandal glowed from the spot next to him until it dimmed, and then its light winked out entirely._

_TO BE CONTINUED…_

#

“And that’s the final episode of _Fire Emblem_! Such drama and such heartbreak! I feel like I’m there with him, feeling every shred of agony that Eliwood feels himself. The third and final season of _Fire Emblem_ ended on a nasty cliffhanger, intended to keep us loyal fans on the edges of our seats.” 

The host on stage pauses to shuffle some of his papers, before sweeping a hand through his pale and sweaty hair. Then he sticks a finger into the collar of his costume, pulling it away from his neck. 

Convention centers are always so damn hot, and this isn’t any exception, but Ignatz has no intention of complaining. He has an entire room of panelists to entertain, hundreds of them lining the rows and dotting the chairs. It’s an amazing feeling, to be around his kind of people. 

“This episode marks the tragic end of the beloved character Ninian, having been struck down by Eliwood. This would have been the end of an entire arc and possibly the last appearance we would have seen of Rhea Seiros as Ninian. Her younger brother Seteth would have gone on to continue as Nils, according to interviews with Hubert Meus, who played Nergal.”

Ignatz pushes his glasses back up his nose. “Most of this is conjecture, of course, seeing as they canceled the show quite suddenly, so we’ll never quite know will we? Rhea and Seteth Seiros rarely do interviews and, according to Mr. Meus, even the actors were kept in the dark to prevent spoiler leaks.” 

Ignatz sighs dramatically as he leans against the podium. “Even when I was a set designer on the show, I can’t remember hearing anything about it. Ah, to be young again! Those were the years, am I right? In any case, I’m pleased that I was able to share this unaired episode with everyone! The only way to see it is usually here, at Fire Emblem Expo! What an amazing treat for our tenth year!” 

He glances at the clock and clears his throat. “We still have a few minutes until the main festivities truly begin! How about we get some hype up in here as we welcome our guests to the stage?”

Ignatz throws his hands up and the crowd roars. He smiles, feeling his blood pumping through his veins because he’s got a pretty good feeling. Maybe this year will go well. 

Maybe this year won’t be an utter disaster.


	2. One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he misses the old days where every day was a new adventure of filming. When Ingrid and Felix were still his close friends and they all looked forward to seeing each other. When everyone joked off-camera and between the scenes, instead of arguing the moment they were within five feet of each other. Things are different now; things have changed so much over the years. Sylvain didn’t mean for it to happen, but sometimes things just do, and then it’s too late to fix it.

**_PART ONE_ **

**_Chapter One_ **

Felix hates wearing makeup, but it’s a requirement for gigs, per his manager Leonie.

 _Your eye bags are something from hell, Felix,_ she had told him once. _You’ll scare everyone one off and then what?_

The worst part is that she’s right. Felix’s only redeeming quality is his talent for acting, not his decent looks or winning personality. It’s hard to impress people anymore when you’ve been typecast from the moment _Fire Emblem_ aired a decade prior, which is why he’s here now, sitting before an ugly mirror, covering up his ugly eye bags. 

Felix should be on stage instead. He _should_ be Hamlet. 

Felix isn’t.

“He’s late,” Ingrid says from behind him. Felix’s eyes shift to watch her in the reflection, make-up brush still pressed against his face as he plays with it. She’s messing with the high-slit of her skirt, tugging the blue linen to the side. “Dumb bastard is late again.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Ashe says from where he’s sprawled across the couch, a book in his hand. “He’ll eventually get here. It’s not like this is new, or even a surprise.”

“Would it kill him to be on time?” Ingrid snaps. Her skirt falls back into place, showing off the entirety of her leg from hip to ankle. “And for fuck’s sake, would it kill them to give me something decent to wear?”

“You wore it every day for like three years,” Ashe says. 

“And I hated it, I loathed it, I nearly quit over it. It required a contract renegotiation-- and for what? So they could capitalize on my thighs?”

“I believe that they were referred to as _paragons of muscular perfection,_ ” Ashe says with a laugh. “I have that particular article framed.”

Ingrid lets out an angry growl that is decidedly, not very ladylike. 

“It’s only for a few hours, Ingrid.” It’s Mercedes who speaks this time with her unwavering patience. Felix’s gaze shifts to her reflection in his mirror. She sits in the armchair next to the couch where Ashe is sprawled, already dressed and ready for their appearance. Her hands are clasped gently in her lap. 

“Only for a few hours,” Ingrid murmurs, her voice barely above a low grunt. “A few hours of every man in the room ogling my legs because it would physically harm them to look at my face instead.” Her gaze narrows as she looks to Mercedes. “Besides, like you would know. You’re fully clothed!”

Mercedes hums at that, running a hand over the soft cotton of her white skirt. It’s a pretty enough ensemble, with a full petticoat and a crisp green bodice that’s paired with it. Mercedes already has her little troubadour wings pinned to her hair, picture-perfect and ready as always. 

Felix wants out of here, he _always_ does, and it’s not because of Merce or Ashe, or Ingrid and her incessant complaints about over-sexualization. 

“I’m a Shakespearean trained actor,” he says to himself as he dabs concealer under his eyes. It’s a mantra that he’s adopted over the years and the only thing that keeps him sane. “I’m worth my talent, I’m not a washed-up hack.”

“Oh no,” Ashe says, sitting up on the couch, settling his book face down and open against his knee. “I think it’s about time.”

“I’m better than this,” Felix tells himself. The circles under his eyes aren’t gone, but once they’re set with powder they look somewhat passable. “I’m better than-- God, what am I doing here? I’m better than this, I deserve more. I can’t do this anymore, I _shouldn’t_ do this anymore.”

Ashe sighs, head falling back against the couch. “Yep, I was right, here it comes.”

“Ashe, leave him be,” Mercedes says, but her lips are quirked into an amused little smile. 

Felix lets out a frustrated grunt and throws down his makeup brush. “I trained at _Julliard!”_ he bemoans. Everyone else in the room barely spares him a glance, used to his crisis-inducing tantrums over the years. 

Felix had spent the entirety of his young adult life training to be the best stage actor there was. He’s hopeless now though, utterly hopeless, washed up and washed out. Talent utterly wasted, forgotten, laying only in the gutter of his mind. Felix can’t find work, Leonie barely puts up with him, and he’s been reduced to appearing at special events and convention appearances as--

The door to the green room is thrown open and everyone turns to see Sylvain saunter in, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, sunglasses slipping down his nose as he runs a hand through his perfectly tousled red locks. 

He’s not even dressed; Sylvain’s beyond late, not even dressed, and if Felix were still holding his makeup brush, he’d have snapped it right in two at the mere sight of the man. Everything is Sylvain’s fault, it’s _always_ been ever since they were children. 

“Lord Eliwood is here to save the day, everyone,” Sylvain says, arms wide with a dramatic flourish. He removes his sunglasses properly, tucking them into his shirt pocket, and frowns at the room. “Woah, what’s happened in here? Have I stumbled into a wake or something?” 

“You think you can just waltz in here with no regard?” Ingrid snaps at him. She’s stopped fiddling with her skirt, moving to clip a beaded sash around her waist instead. “Typical. I don’t know why I expected anything else.”

“Now Ingrid--”

“Don’t you _now Ingrid me!”_ She throws a hanger at Sylvain and he barely catches the jacket hanging off of it. “Ten minutes to call, Sylvain.”

Sylvain only winks at her, not even ruffled, before pushing past. “Have I missed Felix’s meltdown yet?”

At that, Felix stands from his stool abruptly, slamming his hands down on the formica countertop. 

Sylvain pauses, blinking, and then says, “I guess not.”

Felix is shorter than Sylvain by a good bit, but the other man shrinks back a little when Felix gets in his face. “This is your fault,” Felix says to him. “From day one, Sylvain, with our dumb little promise to always do things together--”

“Oh no, here we go,” Ashe sighs, opening his book back up and opting to tune the entire thing out. 

“--and I just _had_ to audition for this travesty of a show--”

“Travesty?” Sylvain cuts in. “This _travesty_ changed your life--”

“Oh my,” Mercedes says, pressing a hand against her cheek. 

“Oh yeah, it changed my life all right,” Felix spits. “In the worst of ways. I should be on stage, Sylvain. I have been-- I’ve played King Henry! I used to sell out theaters and now I’m wasting my life away at these miserable events, surrounded by pathetic morons in costume who can’t even _bathe_ properly, and all because you couldn’t bear to audition alone--”

“Hey, don’t pin this on me,” Sylvain says, finally losing his cool facade as his face darkens and warps into annoyance. “You didn’t have to follow me there, and you didn’t have to--”

“I’m miserable, Sylvain, we’re all fucking miserable and you’ve never once noticed. You _can’t._ You’re too busy with your head up your ass, while you go and book events without us.”

There’s finally a pause and awkwardness settles over the room. Ashe pretends to read his book, Mercedes stares at the wall and Ingrid fidgets with her costume, all well-practiced actions. 

Finally, Sylvain speaks. “I haven’t booked anything without you.”

“Bullshit,” Felix says, pressing his finger against Sylvain’s chest. “Contrary to popular belief, I’m more internet savvy than you might think. I know about your gig next week.”

“Look, sometimes they only ask for me. Am I supposed to turn down a job just because--”

“Enough!” Ingrid yells. Felix and Sylvain both stop and turn to find her red in the face and shaking with rage. “You,” she says, pointing to Sylvain. “Five-minute call and you’re a mess. You look like the back end of a horse, hungover and god knows what else, and you aren’t even dressed. Strip.”

“Ingrid--”

“Strip!”

Sylvain strips, pulling off his shirt and pants, before pulling his designated costume from the hanger. They’ve all seen him in various states of nakedness, in varying states of distress, so it’s nothing new. 

Ingrid turns to Felix, her eyes narrowed as she steps closer, honing in on him. He’s not about to bolt, but Ingrid can be a scary creature when she wants to be, and it’s not just because she knows how to kill a man with her thumb. 

“And you,” she says, extra emphasis on _you_ because she’s just that pissed at him. “I’m sick of you and your tantrums. We get it, this is beneath you, but for fuck’s sake it’s beneath _all_ of us. Remove the Shakespearean-shaped stick from up your ass, before it’s gone so far that you can’t find it anymore. None of us want to be here, okay?”

Ashe drops his book slightly, lips pulled into a pout. “I want to be here.”

“Ashe wants to be here and he’s lucky that he’s cute because otherwise, that would just piss me off.”

“Ingrid--”

Ingrid makes this squawking sort of noise to cut him off and every time that Felix tries to get another word in edgewise, she just keeps making it. Finally, he gives up, going back to his mirror and falling back onto his stool.

Felix looks as pathetic as he feels, a tightly packed ball of carefully contained anger, circles cut so deep under his eyes that the concealer barely does its job. They seem even heavier now that he’s aired his dirty laundry all over again. 

None of this is new for any of them. Sylvain’s lack of responsibility and Felix’s barely contained rage. Ashe’s easy-going nature and Mercedes’ preference to not get involved. Ingrid is always the last word he feels because she’s the only one with enough balls to step in before things get bloody. 

It’s probably because she knows that none of them will pick a fight with her. Picking a fight with Ingrid meant a literal risk of death; she’s a two-fisted fighting machine, packed into a slight little body. 

And she really _does_ know how to kill a man with her thumb, in theory. Felix isn’t willing to be the first actual test victim. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says and Felix deigns him a proper look. He’s nearly dressed, swathed in a blue tunic with gold trimmings. “If you keep pulling at your hair like that, you’ll pull out all those extensions and then Lysithea will get really angry at you, and--”

“Lysithea hasn’t worked our appearances in two years, Sylvain,” Felix snaps. 

Sylvain pauses his effort to strap his shoulder pauldron on, mouth pulling into a frown. “Oh, I didn’t realize.”

Felix scoffs. “Of course you didn’t. You never do.”

Sylvain has no rebuttal so he stands there awkwardly, fingers wrapped around the leather strapping of his armor. “Felix,” Sylvain says quietly, like some sort of mediated peace offering. “Can you help me?”

Felix scoffs and ignores him, but it lasts for all of two minutes before he stands up in annoyance. “I’m only doing this because you can’t go out there looking like an idiot,” he says to Sylvain, batting the man’s hands away from the armor. “I won’t let you make the rest of us look bad.”

Sylvain scoffs. “When have I ever? Felix, have you seen me? I’ve still got it.”

Felix glances at their reflection in the mirror. Sylvain’s got a cheeky grin plastered sloppily across his face, but now that his sunglasses are off and tucked into his pocket, Felix can see that his eyes are red-rimmed and tired. 

He’s been angry at Sylvain for so long, but the show is only part of it and not even the half. The rest is Sylvain’s self-destructive tendencies and his penchant for binging himself into a stupor. They all have demons as a result of their work together, it’s just that Sylvain’s never quite moved on. He’s the best at hiding it. 

Felix knows better because he knows Sylvain like the back of his hand.

He had gotten used to Sylvain destroying himself little by little years ago and he refuses to pick those pieces up any longer. It’s caused a rift between them; they both know it. They don’t talk anymore, they only yell at each other, but it’s easier to pretend that you hate someone instead of admitting that you care deeply about them instead. 

Felix has never been good with feelings.

He pulls the strapping a little too tight on purpose and though Sylvain winces, he doesn’t complain. “Use some eye drops at least,” Felix finally says. “Put some damn effort in.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Sylvain says softly. Felix won’t look at him, he refuses to, because he already knows that sappy smile that Sylvain gets when he goes soft like this. 

Felix is tired of being tossed the crumbs of empty feelings that only half mean something.

A convention volunteer knocks on the green room door politely, before popping his head inside. “Y’all ready to go?”

There’s a collective sigh that flutters through the room as they all pull themselves upright and proper. 

Felix spares one last glance at his reflection, reaching up to adjust the collar of his costume. It’s a long blue tunic, unlaced and hanging open to the end of his sternum. He’s tied the sash around his waist with care because if he’s going to don this ridiculous facade, he might as well be as genuine as possible about it. 

“By my sword and this hand,” he murmurs, pulling his bangs to the side. They flop back against his forehead limply. 

“Felix?” 

Felix looks up to see Sylvain waiting by the door. Felix huffs out an annoyed breath because this is as good as it’s going to get. Shakespearean actor his ass, he should be on stage playing Julius Caesar. 

And yet. 

“I will end you,” he muses, the rest of his signature line. 

Too bad the only thing that’s ended is his life, and that was already fucked a decade ago. 

#

The con floor is always where he feels the best, surrounded by his adoring fans and venerated for all of his hard work throughout the years. Being an actor isn’t easy; it’s hard, backbreaking work, and Sylvain likes to think that he’s worked the hardest of all of them.

And you know, the half-naked cosplay chicks aren’t bad either. 

Sylvain’s a simple man at the end of the day. He likes to be praised, he likes to be fawned over and he likes to be the center of attention. His natural state of being is signing autographs or posing for pictures, arms slung around fans, and leaning over people who want to be just like him. He’s more than happy to recite old lines and swap stories from episode twenty-four, or forty-three, or who-knows-what. 

People tend to lose their spark into their thirties, but Sylvain’s never felt more of a high.

His blood is raging through his veins as they stand backstage, waiting for their big intro. Sylvain and the others frequent smaller cons, but Fire Emblem Expo has always been a little bit different. It’s on a larger scale, there’s more production value and more fanfare.

This is its tenth year, as well as a decade since the end of the show. Somewhat of an anniversary of everything that has shaped Sylvain’s life until this point. 

It’s also the anniversary of the death of his career, the starting point of that slow tumble downward. It’s been hard, dragging himself up from the bottom, but he’s got his fame and his fortune, and he’ll ride those coattails forever if he has to. 

He doesn’t get how the others think. How they hate this limelight. For everything the show had been, there were good moments that they remember. Surely. 

Ingrid stands beside him, wringing her fingers as her leg twitches. “God, I just want to get this over with,” she says to him. “The sooner it’s over, the sooner I can dress normally again.”

“It’s a good look,” Sylvain says to her and he means it sincerely. Ingrid has worked hard in her trade and she deserves to show off the fruits of her near fifteen years of stunt training. 

She snorts in response, the action that he’s long come to expect. “Yeah, I know, and so does everyone else. Sylvain, have you ever even _heard_ the kinds of shit that those creeps out there say to me?”

Sylvain draws a blank as he realizes, no, not really. He’s never paid much attention, too busy dealing with his own fans. Ingrid sees it on his face and she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest before turning away. 

Merce is different, soft, and humble. Even now after she’s curved a little with age, she looks striking in her costume. He takes her hand, pressing a kiss to it and she smiles back. 

“Sylvain,” she says warmly. 

“Merce, I never see you anymore.” She’s arguably the most successful of the bunch, having gone off and become a doctor. She’s also the only one who regularly talks with him. He and Merce have an understanding.

“That’s probably a good thing,” she says with a laugh. “Unless you don’t see a doctor regularly. Then it’s a bad thing. Sylvain, you know that my schedule is always open for you.”

He smiles cheekily at that. “Even for house calls?” 

Mercedes cocks her head to the side and they both laugh. It means nothing to her because she has no interest in him; her interests lie more in the female persuasion and that’s a-okay as far as he’s concerned. 

Sylvain knows he doesn’t deserve Merce, so he’ll take her for as long as he’s got her because one day she’ll realize that she’s made a mistake in wasting her time on him. 

They always do. 

Ashe bounces on the balls of his feet. His costume is a slick burgundy cloak with a high collar and open on one side. It’s still strange to see him wear it as an adult-- Ashe had barely been thirteen when they filmed the show. 

Now he spent his days doing what he does best; being chill and chatting with people about anything. Really, that’s it, that’s what his youtube channel is. Sylvain can admit that he’s a _teeny_ bit jealous.

“This is always the best part,” Ashe says to him, an easy smile spread across his face. “It’s all about making their day, you know?”

“Yeah, I agree.” Except for Sylvain, it’s more about making _his_ day, showering him with the utmost praise, etcetera etcetera. Semantics.

Felix lets out an indelicate snort, not even trying to hide his disdain, and both Ashe and Sylvain turn to look at him. 

He glares back. “What?” he snaps acerbically.

“Nothing,” Sylvain says, “Don’t get your hair extensions in a bunch--”

_“I swear to God, Sylvain--”_

“Boys!” Ingrid hisses, nodding to the stage. 

_Together We Ride_ starts blasting across the stage speakers, a well-known and familiar theme from the show. Sylvain’s shaking with excitement now, eyes wide and bright as he peeks around the curtain covertly to watch the emcee.

The host looks vaguely familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. 

“First up,” the host says, pushing his glasses up his nose. He’s wearing a costume himself, a high-necked mage’s get-up, something often seen on background characters of the show. “The enigmatic thief, Matthew! Let’s hear it for Ashe Duran, everyone!”

Ashe’s cheeks are already pink and glowing as he rounds the corner and throws his hands up. The crowd cheers as he strikes a few poses, eventually pulling out a prop dagger to fling around his fingers with practiced ease. 

“Next is the lovely and the kind, our very own secluded princess-- Priscilla! Come on out here, Mercedes von Martritz!”

Mercedes giggles as she glides onto the stage, waving to the crowd with affection. Over a decade out of the game and she makes coming back to it look easy. 

“It’s time for my personal favorite, the beautiful noblewoman of Sacae-- Lady Lyndis, the lovely Ingrid Brandl Galatea!”

“Shit,” Ingrid murmurs as she steps closer to the curtain. _“Shit,”_ she curses again, but the moment that she crosses the threshold, she’s thrown herself back into her role, playing up the crowd as she saunters across the stage. 

Even if Sylvain knows that she wants to strangle each and every person behind every whistle and catcall. 

“Okay, okay, settle down,” the host says. “We’ve seen him in the show, we’ve heard him proclaim a swift death on his enemies--”

Felix cringes, he actually _cringes_ as he steps closer to the curtain. 

“By my sword and this hand,” the host says dramatically, his voice dropping to a low pitch as he leans closer to his microphone, “I will end you! Karel, the sword saint. Let’s hear it for Felix Hugo Fraldarius!”

The good news for Felix is that his character isn’t much different than the actor himself. Felix doesn’t have to pretend to be a cold-hearted bastard who hates everyone, a snarl constantly curling at the edges of his mouth. It’s who he is in real life. 

The bad news is that Sylvain knows him better than everyone else, and he knows that Felix wants to be anywhere other than right there, at that exact moment. He walks across the stage, his face curled into a near snarl as the screen behind him rolls footage from the show. 

Felix doesn’t look much different compared to a decade prior. Mostly more tired, the circles under his eyes darker. 

When he’s done walking the length of the stage, the host shushes the crowd. “Is everyone ready for our beloved knight of Lycia?” The emcee pauses and the crowd roars in response. Sylvain smiles, but it’s because Ingrid and Felix damn near roll their eyes, not at the way the crowd reacts. 

Sylvain’s a lot of things and he’ll definitely own up to being a smug bastard. 

“Loooord Eliwood!” the host drawls out dramatically with a flourish, “Sylvain Jose Gautier!”

Sylvain throws himself around the curtain with his arms raised, his signature smile plastered across his face. He points to fans and rallies the crowd, motioning for them to cheer louder. They do, their applause is thunderous. There are camera flashes and theme music and screaming and yelling, and it’s all for him. 

Sometimes he misses the old days where every day was a new adventure of filming. When Ingrid and Felix were still his close friends and they all looked forward to seeing each other. When everyone joked off-camera and between the scenes, instead of arguing the moment they were within five feet of each other. Things are different now; things have changed so much over the years. Sylvain didn’t mean for it to happen, but sometimes things just do, and then it’s too late to fix it.

Or it’s too hard, or you’re too stubborn, or you just don’t know-how. So Sylvain doesn’t. 

This is his favorite place now, he thinks. On stage in front of people who truly adore him, who really want him there, who’d traveled just to see him.

There's a jagged little tug that always pulls at his heart. Sylvain tells himself he’s happy like this, taking jobs and riding the coattails of his glory days, but it feels just a little bit empty. 

Sylvain knows why. He loves it, but it’s not really what he wants. He spares a quick glance towards the rest of the cast. Merce is smiling and Ashe is playing up the crowd as well. Ingrid claps politely and Felix just stands there snarling in contempt. 

He’ll never tell them that he misses the old days. There isn’t any point in trying to fix something that can’t be repaired. 

#

“Who am I making this out to?” Sylvain asks, mouth pulled into the smile he’s so well known for. 

The girl’s already pink in the face, flustered beyond belief and she’s cute. Cute enough to consider taking out for a drink, if she’s into that kind of thing. Sylvain’s into anything that makes him forget everything else. 

“Um, _um--_ Oh my god, I just--” 

Sylvain laughs and then winks at her, uncapping a new sharpie, his previous one already dead. “Breathe,” he says to her, trying to calm her down. “I’m a person just like you, so no need to be nervous!”

“Madge,” she finally manages. “I’m Madge.” Sylvain gives her a blank look because he’s not quite sure what she just said. She must have seen his confusion, because she then blurts, “It rhymes with badge.”

So maybe he won’t ask this one on a date, but he does ask her how to spell her name, jotting a little note onto the print. His letters curl carefully as he makes sure that it’s legible. No point in signing shit if they can’t read it. 

“Thank you so much,” she breathes as she picks the print up. A con volunteer shuffles her away and Sylvain’s greeted with a new face. 

It continues on forever, but Sylvain loves it. He actually enjoys chatting with fans, signing little notes and taking pictures. Ingrid and Felix _despise_ signing sessions. Ashe likes talking to any and everyone and Mercedes is too nice to do anything but be nice right back, but Ingrid and Felix barely tolerate this kind of contractual obligation. 

Sylvain doesn’t get it, he thinks, as he looks towards them during a small break. He sips at his water bottle, watching Ingrid quietly. 

Ingrid’s taking a photo with a male fan, face burning red as his hand slips down her side suggestively. She grabs his hand and drags it back up to her waist, before calling him out on it. Loudly, very publicly, and in a very Ingrid-like way.

Okay, so maybe he gets Ingrid-- she’s got her work cut out for her, not that she should. And really, if fans would actually think about her combat training and exactly how dangerous she is, they wouldn’t _dare_ risk it. Even Sylvain doesn’t even risk hugs with her. 

“I won’t say it,” Felix snaps from his other side. Sylvain turns his attention toward him. 

Felix has two fans before him dressed in high-quality reproductions of his own character’s costume. One’s trying to imitate Felix’s signature scowl, while the other says, “By my sword and this hand--”

And then he waits, giving Felix a pointed stare. 

Felix stares back, lip curling upwards in a rather nasty snarl as he uncaps his sharpie and slaps his signature across the print. “Next,” he says instead, ignoring the overt disappointment on the fan’s face. 

The man’s friend steps up and holds out a print, and Felix snatches it from his hand rudely. Sylvain wants to say something, but he knows better than to poke and prod at an angry Felix-- he’s likely to lose a hand in the process. 

This fan doesn’t ask for him to say the line he’s so well-known for. Instead, he asks something far, _far_ worse. 

“I’ve always wanted to know,” the man starts as Felix begins to sign his name. “We know that the canon lore is Eliwood and Ninian, but I’ve felt that there was something between Karel and--”

 _“What?”_

The man blinks, pressing a hand through the sweaty bangs of his wig. “Um, what I mean to say is that--”

“Are you implying that myself and that idiot over there had a _thing?”_ Felix throws a very rude gesture in Sylvain’s direction, causing both of his fans to swallow awkwardly.

“It always seemed that there’s such a rapport between the two of you and--”

“It’s called acting,” Felix says curtly. 

Sylvain feels like he needs to swoop in and do damage control, because if he doesn’t, Felix might actually murder someone. 

“Aw, come on Felix,” Sylvain says, leaning over and draping an arm across the back of his chair. “Let them have their little fan theories. Haven’t you read the fanfictions? We’re a very popular pairing, you know.”

“The fanfictions,” Felix repeats. His eyebrow twitches like he’s not sure he’s actually heard him correctly. “And pray tell, do you read these?”

“Of course,” Sylvain says smoothly. “Anything for my fans.” He looks back to the man before them and shoots him a wink. “Do you ship us?”

“I--”

“I can’t believe this,” Felix snaps, looking at the man as well. “What can I do to end this terrible conversation? A picture? I’ll even say the damn line.”

“Felix--” 

“Sylvain,” Felix warns, his look icy, and Sylvain knows that it’s time to stop his lighthearted teasing if he doesn’t want any of his fingers broken. 

“You’re never any fun.” Sylvain sighs, but removes his arm from the back of the chair. “Sadly, it’s as he says. There’s nothing between Eliwood and Karel, but let me say this-- don’t let that keep you from dreaming your little hearts out, okay?” 

Felix jams the cap back onto the sharpie and slides the print over to the man. Then he motions to the con staff for a short break before they send another person up. When he turns to Sylvain, Sylvain knows that he’s in a heap of trouble. 

“What on earth was that?” Felix asks him in a hushed whisper. “‘Do you ship us together’? Are you mad?”

“What?” Sylvain asks genuinely. “Does the idea of it bother you so much?”

“No, it’s not--” Felix’s eyes snap shut as he thinks. “Do you _actually_ read fanfiction of our show?” he asks instead because deflection is one of the things that Felix is best at. 

Sylvain does. Sylvain actually does and yeah, he kinda has a soft spot for _angershipping_ , as their fandom likes to call it. But it’s less to do with Karel and Eliwood, and more to do with Sylvain and Felix, and everything that’s ever gone unspoken between them. 

Sylvain has known Felix since they were kids and it’s hard to accept the distance that’s grown between the two of them. Even if it’s mostly his fault. 

And then you know, there’s the entire _Sylvain has been in love with Felix for years_ bullshit, but that’s a whole can of worms on its own. Felix would rather saw his own foot off with his dulled prop sword than entertain that idea, so Sylvain lives vicariously through their fandom’s niche offerings. 

“Sylvain,” Felix says quietly, “are you alright?” The question looks genuine and there’s a little furrow between his brow.

Sylvain is suddenly paying attention again. “Felix, if I didn’t know any better, I would think that you actually meant that.”

The concern is gone immediately, a scowl taking over Felix’s face. “Next,” he snaps, motioning to the next person in line. 

It’s a fond thing, Felix’s acerbic demeanor. It’s unapologetically him. Felix isn’t like Sylvain; he can’t slap on a smile and pretend that he’s okay. Sylvain admires that. Sylvain spends too much time trying to please others, trying to pretend to be exactly what they want him to be. 

A con staffer signals his short little break as over and sends up another fan. Sylvain smiles and nods and says pretty words, but he’s lost in his mind and he’s not really paying attention to them.

Instead, he watches Felix begrudgingly say his famed sequence for a young girl that couldn’t be older than ten. He watches Ingrid roll her eyes at a man whose gaze is resolutely trained on her thighs. He watches Ashe throw out a laugh at a joke, and Mercedes smiles kindly as she takes a picture. 

They think that they’re bad at this, but they aren’t. They grouch and moan and complain, but when it comes down to it, they don’t actually _hate_ it. They’re genuine in their actions towards their fans. 

Sylvain supposes that’s the difference between them and him. He hasn’t left his acting in the past, he’s still at it every day, puffing himself up to be the successful man that everyone thinks that he is. Pretending is the only thing that Sylvain is actually good at.

Few know about his habitual drinking, or his depression, or the slew of women that he wears on his elbow to distract himself from the actual person he wants. That he sleeps like shit at night, so he binges watches the home shopping network until the sun comes up. The second that he sheds Eliwood, he becomes Sylvain again, and he wallows in that self-pity after stripping the costume off.

No one wants the real Sylvain. They never have. 

#

Sylvain’s seen a lot of really good cosplayers in his career as a washed-up actor in the con circuit, but the three standing before him have set the bar practically in the polar circle. 

Two men and one very tiny woman, all in varying degrees of period-looking fantasy clothing.

One of them is the tallest man Sylvain has ever seen, golden-brown skin dulled by the pale fluorescent lights of the con center. His platinum hair is shaved into an undercut, the longer strands pulled into a tight ponytail at the crown of his head. The man’s armor looked like true steel, polished to a high shine and if Sylvain didn’t know weapons policies any better, he would think it was _actually_ real. 

Same with the jagged scar down his face. 

The woman is cute with freckles dusting her cheeks, and hair so red that it’s nearly orange. She wears a double-breasted and tailored cream dress trimmed with blue, a neat little capelet thrown over her shoulders, lined with fur. The stitchwork is exemplary and the embroidered details a nice touch. 

She smiles brightly at him, bouncing on her toes with nervous energy. 

The last man is tall as well, shaggy blonde hair hanging limply around his face. When compared to the other two, he’s considerably… rougher looking than the other two, who were more polished, slightly haggard in his appearance. His royal blue cloak practically swallows him, the fur neckline rising past his ears. 

“Wow, what’s with the eye?” Sylvain blurts once he gets a proper look at the man’s face. There’s a mess of scar tissue where his right eye would be, and it’s probably the best application of scar wax that Sylvain’s ever seen outside of the film industry. “That’s some of the best makeup that I’ve ever seen here, holy cow.”

The blonde man scowls, looking almost feral as he starts with, “Makeup? What--”

“What he _means_ to say,” the ginger-haired woman cuts in, “is that it is an honor to meet you, Lord Eliwood. I have to say… I never thought that I would actually get the chance. Any of us, really.”

“Yeah, well, eighty bucks a head is a pretty hefty price. I wonder myself sometimes, the absurdity of fans.” Ingrid hears his rather rude quip and smacks him across the shoulder, but the trio regards him with blank looks, full of confusion. Sylvain frowns. _Larpers._ Not the worst kinds of fans, but definitely the most exhausting.

Sylvain’s not really in the mood to play along after his little spat with Felix, but Ingrid gives him her _death look_ , eyes narrowed into tiny slits as she crosses her arms across her chest. She’s already rolling her wrists, cracking her knuckles, and ready to deck him if he continues on. 

Sylvain sighs and looks back to the three before slapping on his signature smile. 

“It must have been a long journey,” Sylvain says.

“You have no idea,” the woman breathes, letting out a dramatic sigh of relief. 

“You’ve managed to find me though,” Sylvain continues. 

The tallest man is the one to answer, his voice a low rumble. “I am Dedue Molinaro,” he says as he sweeps his hand over the other two. “Annette Fantine Dominic and Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.”

Sylvain lets out a soft little whistle. They’ve put a lot of thought into their characters and it’s impressive if he were, to be honest. Sylvain rubs at his chin and winks at Annette, now that he knows her name.

“What is it that I can do for you?”

“Our people are in danger. We need your help.”


	3. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, I’ll tell you what,” he finally says. “Forget about arranging things with Hilda-- she’s a nightmare at times and never gets anything right.” Sylvain pauses to pull out his wallet, removing an embossed, square rectangle. “Look, this is my personal card-- I never give this out, so feel lucky, okay? Be at this address tomorrow morning with a limo, and we’ll go ahead and get this entire thing out of the way, yeah?”

**_Chapter Two_ **

Sylvain blinks at the trio before him, but before he can ask any questions, Annette is talking. 

“We’ve been at war for so long and at this point that we have no idea what to do. In our efforts to--”

“War,” Sylvain says, and Annette pauses. 

“Yes, war,” she says. “We’ve been at war nearly a decade. Emperor Edelgard has pushed us to the brink, and she’s finally backed us into a corner. We’ve been cleaning up the fringes of her army, but her main force is proving to be too much to handle.”

Suddenly, something clicks into place. Edmund Industries and their new _Beast_ tile cleaner, the gig that Sylvain has booked later in the week. They had mentioned that their writing crew was a little eccentric and that he should prepare himself for whatever odd storyline they throw him. It’s well-known that Sylvain enjoys a fun scenario or two, so it’s not left-field that they might be presenting this whole thing as a game to him. 

Besides, the production quality is just _too good,_ from their costumes to their makeup. Not to mention their commitment and enthusiasm. 

Still, there’s a problem and it’s to his right, watching him carefully as she runs her hands through blonde bangs. Ingrid. Sylvain doesn’t like taking gigs without the rest of the crew, but he doesn’t always have a choice. 

This definitely isn’t the place to talk about this. 

Annette opens her mouth to continue and Sylvain holds up a hand to stop her. “I see, I see, cleaning up messes,” he says. “Say, why don’t we continue this chat a little bit later? Usually, you need to go through my manager but--”

“Your highness,” Dedue cuts in, “time is of the essence--”

“That may be, but I _am_ scheduled to sit at this table for another half hour.” Sylvain looks to the clock to double-check the time. “How about this? I’ll meet with you later with my manager, and we can hash out the details with fewer people around? It won’t be so loud, I won’t be so busy, and we’ll be able to have a nice, long chat?”

Dimitri must be a man of few words because Annette is the one to answer. “I’m afraid that we cannot wait long.”

“It won’t be long!” Sylvain says to them with a wink. “Just long enough for me to finish up this signing and grab a protein bar, okay? I’ll find you, don’t worry.” He shoots a pointed look at Dedue’s hulking form. “I don’t think that I could miss you in the crowd if I tried.”

“I guess it shall be,” the man named Dimitri says, speaking for the first time. “We’ll leave him to his work then. My revenge is not going anywhere.”  
  
There’s something about his archaic tone that rubs Sylvain the wrong way, but he can’t quite place his finger on it. “If that’s all then,” he says, waving over a con staffer. “We’ll conclude our business later.”

Dimitri gives a brief nod. “Dedue, Annette,” he says, turning to his companions. “Let us make haste. I am hungry and I believe that I saw a butcher hawking some food across the way.” 

Annette lets out a squeal at the prospect of food, and the trio turns on their heel to be led away by a staff volunteer. 

There’s a moment and then Ingrid says, “Is it me, or was that _really_ weird?”

“Larpers,” Sylvain says. “Sometimes they’re fun, sometimes they’re cringe, but they’re always a little odd.”

Ingrid takes a sip of her water bottle but doesn’t question him. “Whatever you discuss with them later on, don’t forget that you’re booked for a gig with us tomorrow.”

“The ribbon-cutting ceremony,” Sylvain says. “Raph’s reopening the gym after the reno.” 

Ingrid crosses her arms across her chest but gives him a slightly impressed looked. Sylvain sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“I remember, Ingrid,” he says.

“It’s not about you remembering,” she says right back. “It’s never been about that. Half the time you know exactly when we’ve been booked and you still bother not to show up.”

“I’m allowed to play hooky when I don’t feel good--”

“Which is always?” she asks. Ingrid levels him with an unamused stare, green eyes piercing right through him. “With as often as you _don’t feel good,_ it’s amazing that you get anything done. Convention appearances never seem to be an issue though, you know? Or those private gigs that you pretend to not know about, but get paid better for.”

Sylvain’s mouth snaps shut and Ingrid sighs tiredly, running a hand through her bangs. “You’re always the one shooting off about being a team, but you’re the least reliable when it comes down to things. We can’t keep doing this.”

“Ingrid--”

“No, Sylvain,” she cuts in. “Just… stop. You better be there tomorrow, otherwise, that’s it.”

Sylvain swallows, letting a few seconds of silence stretch before he asks, “What do you mean, that’s it _?”_

Ingrid opens her eyes to look at him once more and this time, she looks like she regrets whatever she’s about to say. “I mean _that’s it_. There won’t be more next time.”

Sylvain’s never considered such a thing, never in his wildest dreams. Even as awkward as they are, even as strained as their relationships have been over the past few years, he’s never once considered that they’d stop working together. 

It’s dumb though because he knows plenty of actors in the con circuits wind up going it solo. It’s not usually because they choose to alienate themselves, it’s just something that tends to happen over the years. Honestly, the fact that they still do shows and events together on the regular was a little unusual. 

Ingrid sees the conflicted look on his face and her brow crinkles in annoyance. “You’ve brought this upon yourself,” she tells him.

Sylvain knows it, he knows it but--

“I’ll be there,” he says instead, voice full of more resolve than he actually feels in his bones. 

“Sylvain--”

“I promise, Ingrid,” he says. “I fucking swear it.”

Ingrid just looks at him, mouth pursed into a fine line, eyes set with disbelief. She doesn’t even bother with a response because she knows better, and honestly, so does Sylvain. 

He’s shit at keeping promises. He doesn’t know why he keeps making them. 

#

In reality, Sylvain’s kind of a dick. 

After the signing session is over, it’s back to the green room to dress down and wash up a little. He hadn’t arrived early enough beforehand, so there’s no makeup to remove this time around, but he’s hot and sweaty, and he wants out of the thick linen and leather of his costume. 

Then he’s got to figure out a way to sneak out of the convention center before his next clients found him. Sylvain knows he promised a chat with his manager before the night was over but Hilda was a no-show as always, and he _really_ didn’t want to deal with them on his own. 

Hilda isn’t reliable for bookings and when she is, she books him the weirdest possible shit, as evidenced by the awkward threesome in period medieval costume. Still, she’s good at PR control and as often as he winds up in the tabloids, Hilda’s connections and ability to make things disappear quietly was well worth what he paid her for. 

Things between him and the crew are awkward, so he slips into the green room before anyone else, peels out of his costume as fast as possible, and packs up with the intent to be out before anyone else can run into him. 

Sylvain fails, still stuffing things back into his bag when Felix throws the door open. He walks in alone, looking at Sylvain with a slight sneer. They hold each other’s gaze until Sylvain sighs, looking away. He zips his bag up and slings it over his shoulder. 

Felix is still standing near the door, arms crossed and bangs askew. Finally, he opens his mouth. “Tomorrow--”

“Ingrid’s already threatened me.”

It’s Felix who sighs this time, uncrossing his arms. “Sylvain, that’s not--”

“It’s not what?” Sylvain asks. He’s not angry. He’s not even annoyed; he’s just tired. “If it’s not that, then it’s just something else. I don’t need to be reprimanded by you too.” Sylvain crosses the room and moves to push past Felix. Felix reaches out and grabs him by the crook of his elbow. 

Sylvain pauses and they both look to where Felix’s fingers are wrapped around his arm. Felix opens his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything and the moment falls into an awkward silence. Finally, Sylvain pulls his arm away and moves past him. 

But then, Sylvain pauses at the door and looks back. “Bye Felix,” he says, managing a small wave before he pushes through the door. Unlike Ingrid, he doesn’t promise to see him the next day. In fact, he never promises Felix anything anymore. He’s the one person that Sylvain can’t lie to, not very well at least, so he just avoids any answers entirely. 

Felix watches him go without another word. 

#

The trio manages to corner him at the second-story fire exit.

Sylvain’s actually impressed, because he went out of his way to use a service elevator after bribing a staffer with a picture, slunk around empty hallways and even doubled back, and then purposely picked an exit that was rarely used, even if it meant a longer walk to the parking lot outside. 

“Lord Eliwood!” Annette says. Sylvain remembers her name because she’s short and cute, and if he were in a better mood, he might ask her out for a drink. At the moment, she’s _lucky_ that she’s cute because it’s the only thing that keeps Sylvain from outright calling security. 

Well, that and Hilda’s wrath. The commercial gig was a higher-paying job than most in recent months, and he really shouldn’t fuck it up. 

“Ah, yes,” Sylvain says with a grimace, but he turns around to face her properly. 

Annette’s lips tug into a little frown. “Oh you, um… you changed.”

Sylvain glances down at his black t-shirt and gray sweatpants. “Ah yeah, you know how leather is. Sometimes it gets a little bit too hot and I was tired of sweating my ass off.”

It’s Dedue who speaks next, cutting in before Annette could waste more time with idle chit-chat. “We understand that you are busy, my Lord,” he says, “but we really must speak with you. We do not have much time.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that earlier. Something about your-- uh, _people_ being in danger?”

The three of them nod sagely. 

“The Adrestia Empire claims Faerghus as their own,” Annette tells him, slipping into a fast reel of a storyline that Sylvain’s not really ready for, nor does he want to hear. Especially when he’s so clearly trying to escape. “But that isn’t true at all,” she continues. “Just because she’s a little bit older, she thinks that she has a claim to everything. Ooh, it just makes me so angry!”

“Um--”

“Annette,” the tallest man says, and Sylvain looks to him. Dedue, he remembers. “Some details are unnecessary.”

Annette puffs out her cheeks in annoyance, but Sylvain thinks that it’s less at Dedue’s tone and more about whatever their plotline is. Sylvain blinks; he’s had a lot of weird gigs in his life, but it’s odd that a company would go to these lengths for a commercial, especially when it was just an ad about cleaning supplies. 

“Lord Eliwood, I must apologize for my colleagues,” the blond man says. _What is his name?_ Sylvain can’t remember for the life of him. He’d remembered Annette because she was cute, and Dedue because it was odd but he’s blanking entirely on the one-eyed man.

“We’re not used to explaining our situation to anyone, I must confess. But Dedue is right- we are running out of time and there isn’t a moment to share all of the details.”

“Um--”

“Our people are in grave danger, Lord Eliwood,” the man tells him, pulling idly at the furred trim of his massive cloak. “We understand that this is a lot to ask, but when I say to you that we have exhausted every option that we have, please believe me.”

There’s something about his tone that sounds truly desperate, and it causes Sylvain to pause. Not in a good way. 

“Look, D--” Sylvain pauses. “Dan…? I’m sorry, I know that you introduced yourself earlier but--”

“Dimitri,” the blonde man supplies without preamble.

“Dimitri, right. The best way to set things like this up is really through my manager. I know that Hilda can be a handful and that she drives a hard bargain but I promise you, she’s not really the vicious hellcat that she makes herself out to be.”

“Lord Eliwood,” Dimitri interjects, “I’m afraid that we cannot wait to make arrangements and we really should do this as soon as possible. We are out of options.” Dimitri sighs, running a hand tiredly through his shaggy blonde hair. “You… you are our last hope.”

Sylvain’s mouth hangs open at that, unsure how to properly respond at first. He’s got to hand it to the Edmund marketing team-- they’ve hired a trio that really throws themselves into their work. He’s impressed.

“Okay, I’ll tell you what,” he finally says. “Forget about arranging things with Hilda-- she’s a nightmare at times and never gets anything right.” Sylvain pauses to pull out his wallet, removing an embossed, square rectangle. “Look, this is my personal card-- I never give this out, so feel lucky, okay? Be at this address tomorrow morning with a limo, and we’ll go ahead and get this entire thing out of the way, yeah?”

Annette grabs the card from his hand with a smile. 

“And the others?” Dimitri says, causing Sylvain momentary panic. 

Right. The others. Ingrid isn’t just going to break his hand, she’s going to outright murder him. Felix will absolutely help her hide his body. 

It isn’t that Sylvain has an aversion to doing smaller gigs with the rest of the cast. He’s tried to get them better gigs, and he’d even tried with Edmund Industries for this ridiculous commercial. They weren’t interested in anyone but him, and it’s because Sylvain’s face is the most popular of the bunch. 

It’s probably a good thing because Felix would have never put up with these roleplaying shenanigans.

“Don’t worry about them,” Sylvain finally says, reaching out to clasp at Dimitri’s shoulder. “They’re busy doing other save-the-world kinds of things. I’m sure that I can handle this one by myself.” Sylvain holds his hand out between them, waiting expectantly. 

Dimitri stares at it, confused. 

“It’s a handshake,” Sylvain says. “You just latch on and shake. It’s okay, I don’t bite. Felix is the one that does that.”

Dimitri looks confused but takes Sylvain’s hand anyway, fingers curling around his carefully. His grip is way stronger than expected and Sylvain has to wiggle his fingers afterward to put the feeling back into them. 

“Tomorrow then,” Sylvain says as he pulls back.

“Tomorrow,” Dimitri confirms.

Sylvain chuckles softly and smiles at the trio. Dedue nods solemnly, mouth pulled into a tiny little frown. Annette still holds his card in her hand, bouncing on the balls of her feet with nervous energy. And Dimitri just watches him, this strangely forlorn look on his face that’s laced with a tiny bit of relief. 

Sylvain decides not to dwell on it. He readjusts the strap of his bag, before moving to turn around and slip out the emergency exit, leaving the odd trio behind. 

#

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that Ingrid is angry. Felix knows her well enough to know that she’s beyond that point, that she’s practically hurtled past it. Ingrid isn’t the type of woman to keep things quiet and to herself; she’s the type to get up in your face and tell you exactly what is on her mind. Usually to her detriment. 

Ingrid is quiet, as she stares out across the parking lot, flinty green eyes narrowed dangerously. She’s dressed and fully done up, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and face lightly painted. She hasn’t once complained about her outfit. Instead, her gaze remains trained firmly on the entrance to the car park and refuses to budge. 

“Felix.”

Felix turns to find Ignatz before him, dressed in normal clothing for the day. They’ve never been close, but Felix always made a point to remember the crew on the television show when it was still in production. Ignatz had been a talented painter masquerading as a set designer because, like Felix, he couldn’t find work in his actual field. 

And like Felix, now he’s been delegated to helping with whatever dumb job they’ve been pathetically hired for.

“Ignatz,” he says, a little more warmth to his tone than he allows most people. He holds out his hand and Ignatz clasps it for a shake. 

“You’ve got to do something,” Ignatz says, nodding over to Ingrid. 

Felix winces. “You know better than anyone that I can’t help her mood.”

“She’s scaring the audience off,” Ignatz says tiredly. They won’t leave, but they’ll be afraid to approach her for autographs and pictures. It’s a free event, so thankfully they can’t ask for refunds, but that wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. 

“Have you heard from him?” Felix asks instead.

Ignatz sighs. “He doesn’t even remember my name. Do you think he’d actually call me to tell me that he’s running late? He’d call you.”

Sylvain would and Sylvain hasn’t, which means only one thing-- he isn’t coming. 

Felix lets out a long breath as he drags a hand tiredly down his face. 

“Should I tell them to go ahead as planned?” Ignatz asks him. It’s pretty sad that they’d already made arrangements to go without Sylvain, but they’re all so used to his ridiculous flakiness that it’s standard now. No one will book the whole crew without literal _insurance_ to cover Sylvain’s booking fee in the event that he’s a no show _._

“I guarantee you that he won’t be coming,” Felix says, shooting another glace to Ingrid. “Give me a few minutes to talk to her.”

Ignatz sucks in a deep breath. “Better you than me, man. Should I have a phone ready to speed dial the cops?” 

Felix cracks a smile at that, just a small, stupid little quirk of his lips. “Only if Sylvain miraculously shows up. Otherwise, I think that I’ll be fine.” Ignatz lets out a huff of amusement but nods before jotting down something on his clipboard. 

When Felix steps next to Ingrid, she doesn’t look at him. “He promised,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest. She taps her boot with impatient and nervous energy. 

“He’s promised before,” Felix says. “He’ll promise again. He’s made a thousand promises that he never keeps, and he’ll make a thousand more.” He pauses for a long moment. “Ingrid, you can’t tell me that you’re surprised.”

He knows that she isn’t, and he knows that she’s aware that she should know better. Ingrid lets out a long sigh, her shoulders sagging as she tries not to tear up. 

“I told him that this was it,” she says quietly. Felix starts slightly at that, raising a hand to press against her shoulder, but chickening out at the last moment. He and Ingrid have a lot of things between them, but he’s never been good at comforting her. Or anyone. 

It’s not really in his nature. 

“I told him not to fuck it up because this would be his last chance. There won’t be any more next times.”

They both know that isn’t true and Felix calls her out on it. “Do you really think you won’t let him right back in, Ingrid?”

“Felix, I _told_ him--”

“I know exactly what you told him,” Felix cuts in. “Nothing that Merce or Ashe hasn’t. Nothing that I haven’t. That’s why he does this, you know. We tell him no more chances, but we never follow through on it.”

Ingrid purses her lips, annoyed. “We’re really bad at this.”

Felix hesitates. “You know why.”

She moves to wipe at her face again, but stops, frustrated. “We’ve lost so much to this dumb show,” she says bitterly. “I don’t want to lose anyone else. Sylvain annoys the shit out of me and God he makes me angry, but I--” Ingrid lets out a growl of anger because it’s the only thing that can adequately show her feelings. 

Then, she says something that he doesn’t expect. “I’m worried what will happen to him if we let him go.”

“He’s done it to himself.” Ingrid frowns but doesn’t correct him. “Here, let me help,” Felix continues, reaching out to wipe at the pooling tears in her eyes. There aren’t many, just a few. “You’ll fuck up your makeup if you cry and I know how much you hate wearing it.”

Ingrid can’t help the laughter that bubbles up through her. “Especially when Merce isn’t here to double-check.” When Felix pulls away she looks back out at the parking lot. “We have to this time, don’t we? This really needs to be the last straw.”

He knows that Ingrid doesn’t like it, hell, Felix _hates_ the idea of it. But she’s also right. “There’s only so much we can do,” he says to her, “We’ve done it all. There’s nothing left. He treats us like shit, so it’s time that he learns the consequences.”

“Merce will keep an eye on him,” Ingrid says. 

“She will,” Felix agrees. “She always has.”

They both wait for a few more moments on one last lingering hope that Sylvain might peel around the corner at the last minute. He doesn’t, to no one’s surprise. 

“He promised you,” Felix muses, his own arms crossed over his chest. “He didn’t promise me, probably because he already knew that he’d fucking lied.”

At that, Ingrid’s eyes narrow once more. “Fuck him,” she says simply, before turning on her heel and walking away. 

Felix is amused by her changed demeanor. Ingrid’s always had wild mood swings, but this time it’s served her well. “Fuck him, indeed.”

At the event, they stand awkwardly on risers, baking in their heavy costumes under the midday sun. Raph’s gym is a beloved fixture in this small community, so there are a few that bother to show up. Ashe says some words with a flirty smile, able to talk a happy mood into the crowd with just a few words. Ingrid’s still simmering with anger, but she’s wearing a smile cheery enough to hide it. 

Felix can’t fake it, but he doesn’t need to. Ingrid takes the obnoxious, oversized scissors and cuts the ribbon. There’s a moment of silence and then Ashe elbows him in the ribs. Felix sighs and leans forward into the mic, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. 

“By my sword and this hand... what a savings.”

The small crowd cheers, the manager of the store shakes his hand, but everything seems dim and dumb as they stand there in their full show regalia without Sylvain. Actually, everything’s been dull for years and it’s like Felix is just realizing to what extent.

The worst part is that Felix isn’t even angry anymore. He’s just tired of it all. 

#

Sylvain’s definitely not new to hangovers, but this one is the mother of all of them. 

Light peeks in through the slits in his curtains and he rolls over to block out the offensive brightness. His head pounds. His mouth is like cotton. He’s half naked and only in his underwear, but that’s pretty standard for when he’s prancing about his home. 

The convention the day prior had put him in a strange mood. 

He’d come home, thinking about larpers and cosplayers and fanfictions about Karel and Eliwood. He’d been pathetic enough to pop in a disc of fan-favorite episodes from the show and treat himself one hell of a cocktail. 

And then another cocktail. And then maybe one more. That’s where things tend to get a little blurry. 

He’d eventually pulled up a bookmarked list of favorite fanfiction because when he gets in his mopey little moods, he might as well read about what will never be. Innocent fics always turn into the spicy ones, and then Sylvain’s left angry and annoyed as he tugs one out to purple prose about whispered sweet nothings. 

Felix would never. Karel wouldn’t either, but that isn’t the point. 

Mornings are always the hardest. Sylvain’s not easy to wake up normally and he’s worse when he feels like he’s about to vomit. His mouth feels like a desert and his eyes are a little crusty, so it’s better to just roll over and go back under until he’s slept the entire thing away. 

Sylvain’s jolted awake by a pounding at the door. He sits up slowly, his mouth slowly mashing together as he tries to gain his bearings back. The room doesn’t spin, but he’s got an awful headache. Being on the mend is better than being beyond it. 

The pounding continues and he stretches his back, before truly looking at the mess before him. Several glasses laying around. A pint of now melted and ruined ice cream, spoon having fallen out of the container and onto the glass table. The television is on the menu loop, playing the theme song from _Fire Emblem._

It’s then he realizes that the pounding isn’t coming from the front door, but rather to the side. He frowns in confusion and looks to his porch door, only to find the costumed trio from the day prior looking at him with confusion and surprise. The entire backside of his home is floor to ceiling glass, so there isn’t much they miss.

Dedue is the one whose arm is raised, poised for knocking. Annette’s gaze slips from Sylvain’s face to his waist and then lower, and then she turns bright red and looks away, hiding her face in her hands. Dimitri looks unamused, his expression a carefully neutral and unreadable mask. 

“Huh,” Sylvain says, still half asleep and heavily hungover. Then he looks down at himself. “Well, at least I’m wearing pants this time.”

#

True to promise, there’s a limo. 

Now that Sylvain’s awake and has downed an entire bottle of water, he’s a little embarrassed by how they found him in his home-- sprawled out, nearly naked and drowning in his own drool. But only a little. 

Now he’s dressed, freshly shaven, teeth brushed and hair carefully tousled, sitting in the back of a sleek silver Cadillac. 

“I hope that casual wear is okay,” he says, sliding a hand across the soft leather of the seats. 

“We can find you a change once we get there,” Dedue says. “I will admit, it wasn’t easy to find this car last minute. I hope it is to your standards.”

“Hmm? Oh, it’s great,” Sylvain says, leaning his head back and propping his sunglasses against his forehead. 

“If you wouldn’t mind, we have a bit of a drive ahead of us,” Dimitri says from his seat across the compartment. “We would like to go into more detail as to what exactly you should expect once we get there.”

“Ah yes, right, right,” Sylvain says. 

“That’s my cue!” Annette says, sitting up straight in her seat and looking pleased that she’s been given a task of importance. “This brief is long but important, so listen up, you hear?”

Sylvain nods along, but he’s admittedly, not even half-listening. He’s tired and his head throbs. The car is bouncy and Annette, while cute, talks just a little too fast for his liking at that exact moment. 

“It all started at the beginning, where there were two Empires-- Faerghus and Adrestia. There have always been quarrels, but eventually, a tentative peace came when the two royal families arranged a marriage between--”

Sylvain holds up a hand and Annette pauses. “I’m listening,” he says to her, “But I’m feeling just a _little_ bit ill. So I’m going to lean back and close my eyes for a bit. I’m absolutely paying attention though, I swear it.”

Dimitri gives him a dubious look through narrowed eyes, but Annette nods eagerly. Dedue remains quiet from his seat, tucked tightly into the space as he looks out the window. 

“Yes, of course,” Annette says enthusiastically. “Rest up, you’ll need your strength! I’ll just keep at it, okay? And I’ll talk a little bit quieter.”

“Thank you,” Sylvain says, and it’s probably the first genuine thing that’s come from his mouth since he’s woken up. He settles back against the seat, head flopping back against the soft rest. He pulls his sunglasses down over his eyes to block out the bright sunlight, closing them for a brief moment of shut-eye. 

“So as I said, Anselma von Arundel was a consort, set to marry King Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd in a bid to unite the territories through blood relations…”

If Sylvain were properly listening, he’d have realized that the tale that Annette tells isn’t the backstory to a complicated cleaning commercial at all. If he’d kept his eyes open even for a moment longer, he’d have realized that they were driving away from the city and to badlands on the outskirts instead.   
  
If he’d been awake, he would have noticed the limo drive up to a large and ominous looking stone gate, glowing a bright purple and yellow with unearthly magic. 

“I think he fell asleep,” Dedue says quietly. Sylvain barely registers the words, his brain foggy as he dozes in the seat. 

“It can’t be helped,” Annette says, equally hushed. “It’s a boring story until the good bits at the end. Should we wake him?”

“No, leave him be.” This time it’s Dimitri. “He looked terrible this morning. A few more hours of rest won’t change anything.”

“Onward to home, I suppose,” Annette says. 

Dimitri shuffles around in his seat, motioning the driver to drive through the contraption before them. The driver looks concerned. 

“A reminder that we are paying you well,” Dedue says. “You won’t be harmed.”

The driver opens his mouth, but then rethinks whatever he’d been about to say. 

“Onward through the gate,” Dimitri says, motioning forward. “Fodlan misses us, I think.”

The driver does as he’s told, switching the car into gear and driving forward slowly. The limo slides into the magic easily as they cross the barrier. The moment that the car is gone from sight, the circle of light collapses in on itself, swallowing them up entirely, leaving behind an awkward array of barren and ancient stonework.

It’s as if they were never there.


	4. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain pulls away abruptly, launching himself across the floor. He trips over a chair and nearly tumbles to the ground, but manages to catch himself. The trio stare at him, confused. 
> 
> “It’s real,” Sylvain blurts. “It’s-- everything here is real.”

**_Chapter Three_ **

Sylvain’s used to waking up with a crick in his neck. He’s the kind of guy that’s able to fall asleep just about anywhere, especially when he’s been drinking, so he’s not remotely surprised that he’d fallen asleep on the limo ride out to the studio. 

At the same time, he does think it a teeny bit odd. Edmund Industries had booked the commercial over a week ago and while they’d been waiting to solidify the final details, Sylvain _did_ know that they were filming at the Nuvelle Backlot. 

Constance is a pain, but she knows how to produce; something, something, _last of her family and with a legacy to hold onto._ He’d heard it so many times that he just tunes it out now. 

The studio isn’t that far from his home, though, so Sylvain must have been more hungover than he’d actually felt. 

He sits up groggily, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. His mouth is dry, his jeans too stiff to lay in comfortably, and the room is weirdly warm. It smells musty; like when you leave a window open in a room all day and it leaves a weird, outdoorsy kind of smell.

“Shit,” he says, his head throbbing slightly. But it’s not spinning anymore and thank God because trying to act and remember lines in such a state isn’t easy to do. He rubs at his eyes again before opening them, blinking the blurriness away. 

He’s sitting up in a large four-poster bed, in a dark room that’s draped in tapestries. Sconces dot the wall, lit, their little flames casting a warm glow. It’s too warm to be piled in blankets and sheets, so he slips his legs out of the covers as he rubs the sleep away. 

It’s a set, he realizes. It has to be, probably from one of those teen gothic-vampire romances that are so popular nowadays. He’s not really into them, but he’s dated enough actresses from them to know what they’re all about. 

He pulls himself from the bed, stumbling slightly on a loose floor rug. His sneakers are set neatly near the foot, and he bends over to pull them back on. 

The door pops open and Annette sticks her head in, smiling as she sighs, relieved. “Thank the Goddess,” she says, stepping into the room fully. “You’re awake.” She’s dressed differently now, a little more casual with a simple off-white linen blouse tucked into a neat black skirt. 

“This um--” Sylvain pauses, sitting back onto the mattress and looking around. “This set is really nice. Top-tier and high quality. Almost looks real.”

Annette cocks her head to the side at that. “Real?” she muses, but she doesn’t linger on the thought, waving it away. “Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. You’re needed in the war room.” She crosses the room and holds out her hands. 

Sylvain grabs them gently, and she helps him up. “Feeling better?” she asks. 

“Yes,” he says. “Thanks for letting me rest.”

“We have late nights here as well,” she says, a tired shadow falling over her face. Sylvain realizes at that moment, just how exhausted she looks. He frowns, thinking. “We’re all used to it,” she continues, leading him out of the room.

The set seems to extend beyond the room, becoming only more elaborate the further they walk. The narrow hall opens into a large foyer, a wide staircase leading downwards. Sylvain pauses, head cocked to the side as he looks around. 

He’s fairly certain that this isn’t the studio. 

“Is this the Lonato estate?”

Annette pauses by a banister and looks back. “Hm? Lonato?”

“This place… I mean, it’s been years since I’ve been there, and there was a lot that I didn’t see, but--” Sylvain pauses, frowning. “The pictures aren’t that similar, now that I think of it.”

Annette seems to understand his confusion finally, a smile spreading wide across her face. “Silly,” she says, leaning forward to nudge his arm. “Do you remember what I told you in the car?”

Sylvain blinks, mouth dropping open. No, he super doesn’t, and it’s because he’d been an absolute asshole and fallen asleep on the ride over. He’d assumed that she went over what was expected of him from the shoot, and he’d already read the memo so… 

But clearly, Sylvain’s missed something rather important. 

“This is Garreg Mach Monastery,” she says, voice pitching low with dramatic flare. Sylvain doesn’t know Annette at all, but he’s got the distinct feeling that she’s absolutely making fun of him.

Annette then looks away, running her fingers along the smooth wood of a carefully carved handrail. “It’s a little run down,” she admits. “And it’s definitely seen better days, but it’s all that we have. Edelgard’s forces keep pushing northwards. We’ve had to retreat here, but thankfully it’s got some natural defenses. It isn’t easy to get an army up here.”

Monastery. Army. Natural Defenses. _Right._

Or not. Sylvain’s confused as to what any of this has to do with a cleaning commercial, but he holds his tongue. It’s not the first time that a fantasy narrative has been used for selling a product, and if they were going to have him boost it, it made a little sense. 

Sylvain’s likely going to have to dress up as Eliwood this time around and those types of commercials are usually the most fun to film.

Annette grabs his arm gently, moving to lead him down the stairs. The stone steps were hard underfoot and Sylvain nearly trips at their unevenness. 

“So, a refresher,” Annette says to him once they reach the floor below. It’s not the ground floor; Sylvain spots another staircase off to the side. She leads him to the left and down a narrow hallway. There’s a distinct lack of electric light, Sylvain notices. Everything's lit by candles, or the natural sunlight filtering in. “And only because I know you weren’t entirely listening before.”

“Look, Annette--”

“It’s okay!” she says cheerfully. “I get it, trust me. The musty old details of history and everything-- so boring. Especially when it’s not even your own. I don’t mind going over the important details again.”

Sylvain’s mind races as he tries to catch up with her words, but Annette keeps on talking, not allowing him a word in edgewise. 

“King Dimitri and Empress Edelgard have been at war for years,” she says to him, rounding a corner. “She claims Faerghus as Adrestian territory, but everyone knows that it belongs to him by birthright. I don’t care if they’re technically related, it’s a stretch at best. The problem’s that she has more numbers and resources than we do, so no matter how much we fight her off, she just pushes back.”

“Um--”

Annette pulls him to a stop before a large wooden door that’s pitted with age. She’s so much shorter than him, but at the moment she seems bigger, eyes bright as she regards him with a critical eye. “Hm, we should have let you change,” she says, reaching out to brush off his shoulder. “But it’s too late for that now.”

“Annette,” Sylvain starts, but then he has no idea what exactly he should say, so he blurts the first thing that comes to mind. _“King?”_

Annette blinks at that, mouth twisting into confusion, acting like the entire thing should be obvious. “Dimitri of course,” she says with a small sigh. She pulls a thread from the pocket of his button-down shirt. “He’s not in the greatest of moods today, by the way. They come and go, and you met him at a high point yesterday but--” 

She lets out a long breath, cheeks puffing out. “Just keep your mouth shut, listen to him and do what he says, alright? Everything will be fine.”

Sylvain reaches out, clasping her shoulders desperately. “Annette,” he says and finally, she gives him a moment. 

“Yes?”

“What on earth are you talking about? What does this have to do with a cleaning commercial?”

“Cleaning commercial? What are _you_ talking about?” she asks. There’s a pause and then, “And what’s a commercial?”

Sylvain suddenly has the feeling that there’s been a grave, _grave_ mistake. 

“Edmund industries hired me for a commercial, Annette,” he says. “I assumed that you were their marketing team.”

Annette’s mouth snaps shut and she looks just as confused as he feels. “My Lord,” she starts, brow furrowed as she bites her lip in thought, but before she can finish her sentence, the door opens and Dedue pokes his head out. 

He’s also dressed down and without his armor, a crisp blue shirt that tied at the neckline tight across his chest. His hair’s undone, strands hanging limply at his collarbone. “There you are,” he says tiredly. “His Highness is starting to lose patience.”

“Um, Dedue,” Annette starts, but he puts a hand up to stop her. 

“Come, Lord Eliwood--”

 _“Dedue,”_ Annette says again, this time more urgent. “I think that there’s been a misunderstanding--”

“There’s no time,” Dedue says, opening the door wider and motioning for Sylvain to enter. 

Sylvain shoots a panicked glance at Annette and she seems a little bit concerned. “All right,” she says, stepping forward to hook her arm through Sylvain’s. Dedue’s brow crinkles slightly at the sight, and she says, “If he’s in such a bad mood, I might as well try to play mediator. How bad is it?” 

Dedue closes his eyes and sighs softly, causing Annette to wince. “Got it,” she says. 

“Annette,” Sylvain says, “I have no idea what’s going on here.”

“I’ve figured that out,” she says to him, looking genuinely sympathetic as she pats his arm gently. “It’s alright. We’ll manage.”

The war room is large and wide, with high ceilings and a lot of natural light spilling in from rectangular windows. The long table in the center is large enough to seat about fifteen people, and there’s a massive map that’s sprawled out across it. Dimitri towers over it, pushing around figures as he charts enemy movements. 

Sylvain knows this can’t be a commercial anymore, so now he’s thinking prank show. It’d be great for a special, honestly. Sylvain Gautier, washed-up actor, returned to his glory days as a hero, only to learn that he’s been entirely duped by the high production value and a decidedly persistent cast. 

Not Felix or Ingrid, but it’s definitely something that Ashe can cook up. 

The rubber soles of Sylvain’s shoes squeak across the stone floor and Dimitri looks up. There’s something a little off about his gaze. He looks agitated, heated even, and Sylvain can tell that there’s something simmering underneath his skin. It’s different than his calm and aloof demeanor from before. 

“Lord Eliwood,” he greets, pulling away from the map and stepping towards him. He’s the one to hold out his hand this time, having learned the greeting and Sylvain takes it without another word. Dimitri’s grip is tight again, but he doesn’t seem to notice Sylvain’s discomfort as he lets go. “I hope that your rest went well?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, “I’m feeling a lot better.”

“Good, good,” Dimitri says, but it’s more to himself than anyone else in the room. He presses a thumb to his chin as he looks back to the map and thinks. “There are things we should discuss.”

“I would say,” Sylvain blurts and Annette tightens her grip around his arm in warning before leading Sylvain to the table. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right--”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Dimitri says as he smooths out the curled map underneath his hands, pausing as he runs his fingertips along a notated mountain range. “And expected. Annette explains things well, but there is a lot of information to remember.”

“I definitely need a refresher, I think.” Sylvain shoots Dimitri his signature wink, as he settles his hands behind his head, clasped. Dimitri looks back unamused and cold. Distant, even. 

It’s different than the day before, and it’s a little bit unsettling. Sylvain’s still holding onto the idea that this is an elaborate prank show, and they’ve somehow found actually competent actors. 

“It’s quite different from Elibe,” Dimitri says, “but this is Fodlan.”  
  
Sylvain’s hands fall back to his side as he shuffles closer to the table to look over the map properly. Elibe is the setting of Fire Emblem, so he’s not surprised that they’ve incorporated it into their plot. It makes for fun, kitchy television, and it’s a smart direction to go. 

And it’s something that Sylvain can work with and improvise well on. 

Dimitri sweeps his palm across the northern half. “I’m the king of Faerghus, which is here. It’s a title bestowed upon me through my bloodline. We’ve long been at odds with the Adrestian Empire to the South.” He paused to point it out. It takes up the entire southern half of the continent. 

“My mother perished shortly after my birth. The tension between our two nations worsened and when I was a young boy, my father remarried a favored courtesan from Adrestia. It was a union that smoothed over relations for a while. With my step-mother, came my step-sister, Edelgard.”

Sylvain perks up at that. The names sound familiar and he’s pretty sure that he’d heard them from Annette. 

“Edelgard is a claimed daughter of the former Emperor of Adrestia and legitimate heir to the throne.”

“I remember Annette mentioning something about that,” Sylvain says, finally finding a place to improvise. “And something about claiming this territory as her own.”

“She thinks me incompetent,” Dimitri says to him. “She finds me unhinged and incapable of leading people, so she claims Faerghus as her own. Her army marches north in a bid to overrun us.” 

Dedue points to the center of the map. “This is where we are now, the Monastery at Garreg Mach. It’s an ancient stronghold, home to a variety of unique magical and natural barriers.”

“Edelgard has spent the better part of a year pushing back against our army with success. It has caused us to take drastic measures,” Dimitri says and Sylvain thinks that this is where the story is going to get good. Props to the writing team; the actors are really into their roles. He’s impressed. 

“Oh, this is where it starts to get good,” Annette says, eyes shining with interest as she clasps her hands against her chest. 

Dimitri points to the monastery once more. “Deep in the underbelly of this church, is a gate. It’s an ancient and wondrous thing, made from the oldest of magics.”

“The Dragon’s Gate,” Annette cuts in, supplementing the name with an eerie drawl that makes Dimitri frown at her. She immediately straightens her posture and smooths out her skirt. “Um, right. The Dragon’s Gate. Big magic thing that can open portals to other worlds--”

“That can _what?”_ Sylvain is sure to throw in a dramatic gasp for extra flare. 

“The legends speak of a great dragon, sealed away through the gate a millennia ago. We were attempting to summon Seiros to this realm, hoping that she might help us put an end to the Empire,” Dedue says quietly from Dimitri’s side. 

“And Edelgard’s head on a platter,” Dimitri says, his voice taking a rather harsh tone. Sylvain blinks at the rather aggressive dialogue. 

“We failed,” Annette says with a dramatic sigh. 

“Failed in summoning a dragon? I mean, it sounds difficult,” Sylvain says. 

“Well yeah, but I mean this was like _super_ difficult. The kind of magic that I’ve never tried before and all of that.” Annette waves her hand around. “I mean, I can only do so much--”

“The point is,” Dimitri says, cutting in, “that we failed to summon Seiros, but succeeded in opening the portal-- directly to your world.” 

“And that’s where we saw them!” Annette finishes.

Sylvain’s almost afraid to ask, but he does so anyway. “Saw what?”

“ _Fire Emblem_ ,” Dimitri says. “The magical journals that detail your adventures through Elibe.” He pulls away from the map and finally looks to Sylvain, his good eye glinting with a little bit of madness in the low candlelight. 

“It was fate,” Dimitri continues, “to find a Lord who’s vanquished foes no one could imagine-- even a dragon! We won’t be able to summon Seiros to take care of Edelgard, but the Goddess has brought you to us instead. With your clever wit and faithful cadre, we might have a chance to stop Edelgard once and for all.” 

Sylvain bursts out into laughter. He can’t help it. He’s grinning wide as the sound wells up and through him straight from the gut. He’s dealt with some ridiculous storylines in his life-- _hell,_ the television show had some memorable off-kilter moments that are made fun of to this day-- but this one is its own brand of admirable lunacy. 

Annette, Dedue, and Dimitri don’t laugh. Dedue stands there, still as a stone giant, mouth pulled into a small little frown. Annette drops her eyes slightly like she’s sad to see him react as such and Dimitri clenches his hand, mouth opening as he is about to retort.

“Dimitri, don’t,” Annette says, “I don’t think that he knows any better--”

“Don’t be absurd, Annette,” he snaps. “Surely he’s seen more ridiculous things.”

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain says, trying to ease the tension. “Of course I’ll help. Isn’t that what I always do?”

There’s a moment of pause, as the other three look at each other. Then Dimitri moves. He doesn’t quite bow, but he pulls his cape to the side and presses a hand against his chest. “Lord Eliwood,” Dimitri says, “I implore you, on the behalf of the Kingdom of Faerghus, and all her people, please help us vanquish Emperor Edelgard.” 

“I will do my best,” Sylvain says to them, “I’m going to be honest about my companions. I’m not sure that they’ll want to help, so it’s best if we handle this quickly, yes?”

“Ah--” Annette starts and Sylvain turns to her. 

“You tried to summon the dragon right? Through the gate? Can we try that again?” 

Annette frowns. “I’m not really sure that it would make much of a difference, my lord,” she says. “Let me show you.” She holds out her hands palm up. “The gate works like this-- it pulls together all of this energy and--” The air above her hands starts to waver slightly and the air grows warm. Then there’s a crackling sound, not unlike a low-burning campfire and then--

And then there’s a flame in her palm, swirling around wildly in a little ball. 

“Then it becomes like… a living _thing,”_ she continues. “It’s really hard to describe unless you feel the magic, but--”

Sylvain isn’t listening anymore. He’s seen flammable gel used plenty of times, hell, he’s even seen entire sets set on fire with carefully controlled measures but, for small little things like this, it’s almost always added in post. Tiny little flames are usually digitized. 

Something’s off, and this is not the first time he’s thought that. 

Sylvain steps closer, holding his hand to the little flame above her palm before sticking his finger right through it. And then he yelps, pulling back because the fire is fucking real. 

“Eliwood!” Annette gasps and the fire immediately dissipates. “Why on earth would you-- oh bother, let me see your hand.” She pulls it to her before he can resist. Her fingers are glowing again, this time with soft warmth, and then there’s a tingling sensation to his entire hand, and then the burn _fucking disappears and--_

Sylvain pulls away abruptly, launching himself across the floor. He trips over a chair and nearly tumbles to the ground, but manages to catch himself. The trio stare at him, confused. 

“It’s real,” Sylvain blurts. “It’s-- everything here is _real_.”

“Of course it’s--” Dimitri starts.

“Dimitri, stop,” Annette cuts in. When he opens his mouth to retort further, she shoots him a nasty look. Dimitri shoots her another one back, his gaze far more dark and menacing than her carefully placed warning. 

“Lord Eliwood,” she starts, “why don’t you--”

“This is insane,” Sylvain says. “I mean, yeah the entire thing was odd and confusing, but I’ve worked some strange jobs before. This though… God, I have to still be dreaming.”

Annette purses her lips like she’s trying to figure out what to say next. 

“Annette, please tell me that this is still a dream.”

“Eliwood--” 

“If this isn’t a dream, then tell me it’s an elaborate joke.”

Annette sighs, clasping her hands in front of her. “It’s not a joke.” 

“The magical journals,” Dedue says from where he stood next to Dimitri. “After we failed to summon Seiros, we thought all was lost, but--” Dedue sighs. “Your world is odd and it took time to get used to, but we felt like we had finally found hope.”

“We’ve watched every entry,” Dimitri says. He’s looking at the map again, hunched over as his hand swipes across the vellum. “We’ve tried your tactics and for the first time in years, we’ve managed to push back. But we’re not there yet, we’re not--” He lets out a growl of anger. “There’s something that we just cannot overcome. I’m not sure what it is.”

“So you came all the way to me, thinking that I could actually help you,” Sylvain says. He presses a hand against his forehead, pushing back his bangs. It’s absurd, the entire thing is absolutely wild. These people had somehow found their way to earth with magic or science, or whatever the fuck this Dragon’s Gate was, and thought they he could help him. 

Sylvain can’t _wait_ to try and explain this to the others. Actually, he can; it’d be a terrible idea to pass this off as something that’s actually happened, even if it has. They’d never believe him.

Well, maybe Ashe. Ashe believes in everything, from ghosts to energy healing, so this wouldn’t be so far-fetched for him. Ingrid would throw something at him. Felix might actually be concerned, but only because he thinks that he’s finally gone insane.

“Lord Eliwood,” Dimitri says quietly, “I know that we ask a lot of you. I know that you hold no obligations to our people but--”

“I can’t,” Sylvain says. 

The look that Dimitri gives him in return is something between anger and despair, but before he can say anything in response, Dedue reaches out and presses a hand into his shoulder to stop him. 

Then he looks to Sylvain. “Lord Eliwood… Karel, Lyn-- all of you, you are our last hope.”

Sylvain’s a fucking actor. At one point, maybe that had meant something, but his only job now was to dress up pretty, say a few lines, and make appearances for the sake of celebrity fame. It’s not his job to risk his life to save a land he’s never even _heard_ of. 

“I can’t,” he repeats, “I can’t. It’s not-- look, I just _can’t.”_

“Lord Eliwood,” Dimitri says, his voice low and more threatening than Sylvain likes. “I would like to reiterate that the fate of our people might very well rest in your hands.”

Annette stiffens slightly at his words. “Dimitri--”

“I will not rest until that woman’s head rests on a pike, out in front and on display for everyone to see,” Dimitri tells him, his words at odds with his carefully placed tone. “I will not back down easily, even if it means going to any length that I can to ensure that you help.” Sylvain swallows thickly, suddenly on high alert. Sure, he’s played the hero before and Dimitri doesn’t strike him as a villain but--

_But--_

“Dimitri,” Annette says again, pressing her hand against his elbow, and it’s like he’s snapped out of whatever had fallen over him. He looks at her, a soft frown on his face as his gaze falls to where she holds him. “Dimitri, don’t.”

“Annette,” he says quietly, but then his voice trails off. Dimitri then sighs, running his fingers through his long, shaggy hair before turning back to Sylvain. “I apologize, Lord Eliwood. I lost myself for a moment there and it was unbecoming of me. War is exhausting and some days it seems like we are at the reaches of our sanity.”

“I’m sorry,” Sylvain says, and he is, _really_ he is. “I just want to go home.”

Dimitri regards him for a long moment, before shrugging out of her grasp and going back to the map. To look over things again, but Sylvain knows that it won’t make much a difference. He’s played out this storyline too many times in his tv show, he knows that these people are pretty much out of options. 

“Take him back to the gate,” Dimitri says quietly. “Make sure that he gets his things.”

Annette slips her arm through Sylvain’s, tugging him to the side. “Come on,” she says. “I’ll get you back safe.”

“Lord Eliwood,” Dimitri says once they reach the door of the war room. They pause and look at him, but the king doesn’t look up from the map. “I hope that you reconsider. This isn’t just about the three of us, this is about an entire country. You might not know it, but you are a hero to our people. We have nothing left.” 

He, a hero. What a ridiculous idea. Then there’s him, a hero who’s been requested to _save_ people. Even more ridiculous. Sylvain’s nothing but a washed-up man no longer in his prime. He laughs softly because he can’t help it. Annette gives him a confused glance, but Sylvain stops, clearing his throat. “Come on, Annette,” he says, moving to tug her through the door and back into the hallway. 

They turn the corner and travel the length in the hallway in silence. Sylvain pauses once they’re back in the large foyer, and he takes a moment to really absorb the room. He’d thought it was a set, but it’s real. Everything is real, from the monastery that he stood in, to the little magic flame that Annette had carried in her palm. 

Sylvain rubs at his hand, the skin still tingling slightly. 

Annette looks like she’s about to say something, but she doesn’t, snapping her mouth shut without a word. Instead, she leads him towards another staircase in the corner. “Come on,” she says. “I’ve got to get you down to Abyss before anyone sees you.” 

A servant sweeps down the other staircase, carrying his bag and a large cloak. Her face is red as she hands it off to Sylvain, and she’s so flustered that she can barely meet his gaze. “My lord,” she says softly, with a curtsey. 

It’s so similar to conventions and his adoring fans, but for someone here, it’s different. The woman isn’t a fan of his work, she thinks that they can save him. 

“I um-- thank you,” Sylvain says lamely because his usual slew of wooing words remain lodged in his throat and his mouth is like a desert as he watches her slip away.

Sylvain’s used to pretending around people and putting up an act. He’s always been able to shape himself into whatever he’s needed to be for that moment. An adoring suitor. A suave salesman. 

A man who lives the high life, only to go home to a quiet and empty house with no one but his pitiful self. 

He’s at a loss here, he really is. It’s not that he wants these people to die, it’s that he doesn’t know how to help them. He can’t save them. Sylvain’s doing them a favor by going home. Dimitri had called him their last hope, but he’s wrong. Without him, they can still find a way to manage. There’s still a slim chance.

It’d be worse to put their fate into his useless fucking hands. 

#

The Dragon’s Gate is a massive and hulking thing, a hemisphere of hard polished stone set against a dark backdrop that seems to go on forever. Sylvain knows that it doesn’t. They’re deep underground, having passed through a slum called Abyss. Annette didn’t explain much, she’d only told him to pull the cloak tighter around his face and to move as quickly as possible. 

She hadn’t wanted to risk anyone seeing him before his departure, and honestly, he doesn’t blame her. 

The black of the room seems to go on forever and right in the center, is the gate itself. The empty space in the middle glows a soft green and the translucent air ripples with power. There’s a hum to it, a small vibration set deep into his bones. The hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up, and he can feel the weight of it prickling his skin.

 _Like a living thing,_ Annette had said to him earlier.

It’s a far cry from flash paper, holiday lights, and post-editing. 

“So you just walk right through,” Annette says. “I know it’s scary looking, but it doesn’t hurt, I promise! It feels a little weird, and you’ll come out the other end with your legs feeling all wobbly and such, but--”

“Annette,” Sylvain says kindly. 

She smiles at him, tired and weary. “Oh, I went and rambled on again. You know, it used to be singing, but lately, I just can’t find the drive to…” She realizes that she’s done the exact same thing again and sighs. 

“Annette, I feel like I owe you an apology.”

“No,” she says, waving the thought away. “Honestly, we owe you one. What were we thinking? Coming and getting you, and just assuming that you’d help? In retrospect, it seems a little dumb.”

Sylvain adjusts the pack on his shoulder and fingers the finely embroidered cloak that he’s currently wrapped in. Annette insists that he keep it as a souvenir. He steps closer to the gate. The closer he gets, the stronger the magic feels, the thrumming settling deep underneath his skin.

Then Sylvain hesitates, biting his lip. Then he decides to do something potentially stupid. He turns around to Annette who still stands there, watching him quietly. “Annette,” he starts, “I’m an actor.”

She blinks back at him, head cocked to the side as she works through what he’s just said. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m an actor,” he repeats. “The Lord Eliwood that you think is a hero? He’s a character that I played ten years ago in a production.” 

Annette, to her credit, doesn’t freak out. There’s no gasp in shock or a proclaimed exasperation. Instead, she does something that he doesn’t expect. Annette sighs, hands clasped neatly in front of her. 

Sylvain blinks. “You don’t look surprised.”

“I’m not,” she says softly. “I couldn’t place my finger on it, but you just seemed… _off_. And you didn’t always answer to your name.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want to help,” Sylvain says. “But I’m a coward, Annette. This entire thing?” He pauses to gesture around them. “Magic? War? Dragons? It scares me, and _shit_ , it’s definitely not in my job description.”

Annette crosses the space between them. “It’s alright,” she says to him. “We’ll figure it out. Go home and get some rest, okay? I know this was a lot to take in. It certainly was when we stumbled over to your side for the first time.”

Sylvain smiles at her, real and genuine. “Sylvain,” he says to her. 

“Hm?” She reaches out to adjust his cloak. 

“My name-- my real name. Sylvain.”

“Sylvain.” She pauses, moving to brush back his bangs. “You’re a kind man,” she says. “I can tell.”

“Nah,” Sylvain says. “I’m a jerk.”

Annette hums, almost like she’s amused, and steps back. “Alright then, through the gate you go. Remember, you’ll be a little unsteady when you get to the other side.”

Sylvain nods and turns back to the gate. 

Annette’s voice stops him once more. “Sylvain, good luck.”

He pauses, hand wrapped tightly around the strap of his pack. “Yeah, luck,” he murmurs. He’s going to need more than luck to forget about this entire nightmare. When he looks back at Annette one last time, she’s smiling gently. She gives him a small little wave and he returns the gesture. 

Then he steps into the gate.

#

His phone doesn’t immediately get reception when he’s back, because the gate dumps him in the middle of nowhere. 

Annette hadn’t been kidding. The moment that Sylvain crosses the threshold, he topples right over. It’s not just an unsteady feeling, it’s like he’s lost all function in his legs. 

“Shit,” he murmurs, scrambling across the ground until he’s sitting up. His skin tingles, leftover magic thrumming through his bones like low vibration. He shakes and rubs at his hands, trying to get the feeling back. _“Shit,_ I feel weird.”

He’s deep in the mountainous hills outside the city, where there’s little more than dry patches of hard cracked earth and pitiful shrubbery. There’s an old farmhouse in the distance, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell with his head foggy and lightheaded. 

He fishes into his bag to retrieve his cellphone, but there’s no service. 

“Shit,” he says, and it’s quickly becoming his favorite word because it’s the only thing that adequately explains his life at the moment. From angry castmates who will never talk to him again, to a dimension-hopping king who’s requested his help in saving his people, Sylvain’s pretty damn sure that his life is an absolute fucking joke. 

Sylvain looks behind him. There’s a gate here too, but it’s smaller and less imposing than the one on the other side. It’s rudimentary, carved from the stony hillside. It looks old, partially crumbling in a spot from neglect. And unlike the other one, it’s not teeming with energy. It’s blank, quiet, and unassuming. 

He doesn’t even want to think about how it got there, or who made it. 

Slowly he finds his legs again. He pulls off the damn cloak because the sun’s beating down on him and it’s too hot to wear. He folds it neatly, before shoving it into his bag. Then he walks, picking the direction of the house in the distance. 

Once he was nearly there, he gets reception back, and with it, a slew of angry text messages and voicemails from crew and manager alike. He chooses to ignore all of them, pulling up the app for a car service instead. It’s not the best one, but it’s discreet and they won’t go blabbing to the tabloids about picking him up in the middle of the badlands. 

The house is abandoned, the roof falling in and the porch rotted out. Sylvain sits on the decrepit wooden steps as he pulls his phone back out. He ignores every message except for one. He’s gotten enough angry messages from her over the years to have the number memorized. 

Sylvain opens it, not sure why he bothers to torture himself. To his surprise, it’s surprisingly tame and lacking the vitriolic language that he expects. 

All it says is, _I’m disappointed in you._

Sylvain sighs. “Oh Ingrid,” he says to himself, “trust me when I say that no one is more disappointed than myself.”

It’s amazing how much her message stings. Turns out, disappointment burns a whole lot deeper than anger ever will. 

#

Later that night, when Sylvain’s about three episodes into Fire Emblem’s Greatest Hits, he decides that he can’t stand it any longer. He pulls his phone from the charger and unlocks it. It’s a clear night for him because he’s decided to go it sober, so instead, he lays on his couch in a pathetic little puddle as he tries to remember the good-ole days. 

And then he remembers that even then, the days weren’t that good. 

His phone is set too bright for the dark room, so he hisses slightly when it lights up. He’s deleted most of the messages from everyone, with the exception of Ingrid’s text and one voicemail. 

“God, I must be a masochist,” Sylvain says to himself, as he punches in his voicemail passcode. Then he puts it on speakerphone mode, lays it across his chest, and braces himself for reality to punch him in the face. 

_“I can’t believe you,”_ Felix says from the speaker. _“Actually, I can, because this is the kind of shit that you always pull. It’s nothing new to promise us anything, but Ingrid warned you, Sylvain. And guess what? You’ve finally fucked it up beyond repair. Years of false camaraderie and your dumb little ‘we’re in this together’s’-- We aren’t, Sylvain. We haven’t been in a long time, and it’s entirely your fault._

_“And I swear to God, if you’re thinking about our dumb promise, rethink it. We were children and we’re all grown up now. Pinky-promises don’t mean shit when you’re a hypocritical, self-centered asshole who only cares for himself.”_

Felix pauses in his message and Sylvain hears him take a deep breath. 

_“I’m tired, Sylvain. I’m tired of waiting for you to grow a pair and I’m tired of fucking waiting for you to pull your head out of your ass. I hope that it was worth it because as it stands, the only thing that you’re good for is wallowing in your self-misery.”_

That’s the entire message. Sylvain’s finger hovers over the button to delete it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he listens to it again. And then again. 

Sylvain _is_ thinking of their dumb promise, made when they were kids and nothing but lanky limbs and skinned knees. Back when Glenn was still there and Ingrid had the biggest fucking crush on him, and their only concern was who got to play the cop and who were the robbers. 

Things are so complicated now and Sylvain misses those days, but most of all, he misses Felix and the ease that they used to have. The voicemail is angry, but it’s not because Felix hates him-- it’s actually the opposite. 

Felix has never been good with feelings and tough love is the only way that he knows how to get through to someone. So when Sylvain hears, _The only thing that you are good for is wallowing in your self-misery,_ he knows what Felix actually means. 

_Get off your fucking ass and do something about it._

Sylvain’s loved Felix for literally as long as he can remember, so he doesn’t delete the message. He saves it instead because it’s the closest that Felix has come to caring aloud in nearly a decade. 

His phone rests on his chest and the television is turned down low. The picture casts light and shadows along the walls in his dim living room. The couch isn’t comfy, so he readjusts himself, head resting against his arms. Sylvain stares at the ceiling, thinking. 

Really, really, _really_ thinking. 

Several hours later, after his DVD has ended and the menu is on loop, Sylvain makes potentially the dumbest choice in his entire life. 

But probably the most impactful, because Felix is right. Sylvain’s an asshole and it’s starting to wear on him. He’s been given plenty of opportunities to be good, but visiting kids in the hospital and giving to charity only goes so far. 

So, he’s going to do something incredibly stupid and a lot more drastic. 

Sylvain pulls himself from the couch with renewed purpose. He finds his old camping backpack buried deep in the back of his closet. He shoves a few shirts and a couple of pairs of lightweight pants into it, and then the cloak that Annette had insisted he keep. Sylvain winces when he thinks about his hiking boots and the blisters that they rub into his ankles, but they’re also sturdy and will protect his feet in a place that’s more wilderness than not. 

At least, that’s what he assumes he’ll need. 

It’s nearly two in the morning when he calls a car out to come and pick him up. The driver looks at the directions that Sylvain gives him, regarding him with a dubious eye, but Sylvain insists. Then he promises a big tip just in case. 

It’s a long drive and feels even longer in the quiet silence. Sylvain taps his foot nervously and drums his fingers along his knee. He’s considered leaving a message for Felix but opts not to. 

Felix will just delete it out of spite, not bothering to give it a listen.

Finally, they reach the abandoned house, rotted wood crumbling and leaning slightly to the left. The driver hesitates and then asks, “Are you sure this is where you meant to be dropped off?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. And then he adds, “It’s uh, we’re shooting something here tomorrow, so keep it on the down-low, yeah?” He slips the driver two twenties and pushes open the car door before the man can contest. 

The driver snaps his mouth shut and pockets the money. “Alright then. Good luck.”

Sylvain watches the car pull into reverse before driving away entirely. Then, he pulls out a flashlight and starts his hike. 

At night, the gate is infinitely creepier. Unlike earlier in the day, he can feel it, the innate sort of power that it has. It’s not nearly as strong as the other side, but it’s there, just a small little hum. 

His hands tighten around the straps of his backpack. “God, I hope I’m not making a mistake.” 

Sylvain moves closer before he can talk himself out of it. Then he pauses, pulling his phone out of his pocket once more, reconsidering leaving a message. Then he remembers there’s no reception. He sighs and pockets it again. 

The gate comes to life when he’s within a few feet, purple mist rising to fill the space between the rudimentary hemisphere. He’s not sure if it’s because of creepy dragon magic, or the fact that it just recognizes him, or some other weird bullshit like that. After watching Annette lift the burn from his hand with little more than a wave, he’s decided to stop questioning things and just accept the wild and unbelievable. 

Sylvain pauses, thinking back to a moment on the show. Second season, twenty-sixth episode. Eliwood’s conversation with Lloyd of the Black Fang, right before they fight. Lloyd had been a good character; a good man forced to make bad decisions, all to protect others.

 _“‘And you never question the justness of your missions?’”_ Sylvain muses, remembering the line. “No, I need to do this,” he continues. “It’s about time that I do something fucking good for once.”

He waits a moment, takes a deep breath, and steps right through. 

It’s not like Sylvain is floating, it’s more like a hurtling through space, being tossed around, chewed up, and then folded over and over, before you’re spat back out the other end. Sylvain stumbles through the exit, legs like lead, and immediately tumbles to the ground. 

He’d expected the space to be quiet because it’s so late at night, and time seemed to match on both ends. 

But Annette is there, standing by the polished stone of the gate, hands held up and shimmering with light. She’s dressed in a simple skirt and blouse, a cloak thrown over her shoulders to fight off the nighttime chill. She blinks as she looks at him, confused like she’s not really sure that he’s actually there. 

Sylvain groans, trying to sit up. He can’t, so he rolls over instead, chest heaving as he rubs at his forehead. 

Annette snaps to, running over and dropping to her knees beside him. Immediately her hands are at his head, a cooling sensation falling across him as the headache lessens. 

“Shit, it’s way worse coming back, isn’t it?” 

Annette laughs and helps him sit up. “Sylvain,” she says softly, “What are you doing here?”

Sylvain shakes out his hands and then moves to rub the feeling back into his legs. Then he looks at her, lips quirking to the side in a smirk as he winks. 

“You came to me for help, Annette. I’m here to deliver.”


	5. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve heard speak of a well- known hero,” Edelgard says from atop her horse. A hand rests casually on the axe at her side, larger than she is. “Whispers of a lord from the mouths of my men.” Her lips purse as she regards from Sylvain top to bottom. 
> 
> “I must say, now that we’re face to face, I don’t think you are nearly as impressive as the stories imagine you to be.”

**_Chapter Four_ **

There’s usually an order to the way they dance around each other, and it goes like this:

First, Sylvain does his fuck up of the week, leaving everyone not at all surprised and incredibly annoyed. Next, Ingrid yells at him. She says the mean things that no one else will and doesn’t hold back, then she usually gives some sort of halfhearted apology that Sylvain promptly ignores. Mercedes is next, checking up on him with genuine concern. Sylvain always answers her call, because they have an understanding of each other that no one else seems to really get. 

Felix is usually the last one to call him up, only to yell at him to get his ass back and properly apologize because it’s too hard to work together when no one can get along. Sylvain always gives in at this point, and Felix knows it’s because Sylvain just can’t ignore him. 

Sylvain’s a complicated man, but he’s very simple when it comes to Felix. Felix absolutely takes advantage of it. 

Felix eyes his phone where it sits on the table in front of him, arms crossed across his chest. Ingrid sits across from him, eyebrows raised in amusement as she sips at her mug of coffee. It’s their weekly coffee date, and while he usually looks forward to seeing her, he can’t focus on his carefully brewed pour-over, black as his soul and as bitter as he feels. 

“Stare at it a while longer and it just might come alive,” Ingrid says, amused. 

“He usually calls by now,” Felix says, irritated. “He’s _supposed_ to call by now.”

“I was there when you made that call, Felix. You basically told him to fuck off.”

Felix sneers at her. “Telling him to fuck off is the one pleasure in my life. It doesn’t mean that he actually listens to me.” He pauses, expression softening as he frowns. “He’s usually bombarding my phone with texts by now, and when he gets tired of that, he just calls until I finally answer.”

Ingrid hums at that. “It’s always been different with the two of you.” Felix knows exactly what she means and he hates that she even brings it up. 

“Something’s wrong,” he says, biting at his thumb. “What if-- Ingrid, what if he took what I said seriously? What if he’s gone and done something stupid? He’s dumb and stubborn enough to do just that.”

Ingrid places her mug back down on the cafe table. “Sylvain’s a lot of things, but I doubt that he’s lying face down in a ditch somewhere.”

“Ingrid,” Felix says quietly and uncharacteristically concerned, “It’s been three days. Do you remember what happened the last time it’d been three days?” 

Six years ago Sylvain’s father had died. They hadn’t been on good terms, but he’d still taken it hard, and he’d gone and fucked off without a word to anyone else. Three days later, he’d drunkenly called Felix, bemoaning his love for him, insisting that he come and find him so he could make it right. Felix had actually gone to him, born out of ill-placed faith and wanting, only to find Sylvain half-dressed and sprawled across the lap of a very naked, very well-formed model. 

So much for everlasting love that couldn’t be ignored any longer. 

Ingrid must because she falls silent and sighs. “Look, I have every intention of going through with my threat,” she says. “From now on, he’s nothing to me.” 

Ingrid will do exactly what she says. Felix knows it, because she’s the only one in their group that actually has the wherewithal to follow through with something like that. At the same time, Felix knows that she’s worried, even if she tries to hide it. He knows her too well; he sees the signs. It’s in the way that her lips wobble the slightest bit, or how her gaze lingers on his phone as well. 

“Damn it,” Felix mutters, standing abruptly.

“Felix--”

“It will only take a moment,” he says. “I’ll just go and make sure he’s not dead.” 

Ingrid is silent for a long moment and then says, “Will you call me? Let me know? Even if I don’t want to see his dumb face, it doesn’t mean that I’m not worried.”

Felix pauses, expression softening as he reaches out and ruffles her hair. Ingrid grumbles, but she doesn’t push him off. 

“Yeah, I’ll call you.”

#

Felix is the only one with a spare key to Sylvain’s home. He doesn’t like using it, but he’s already stood on the stoop nearly ten minutes, kicking at the door in case Sylvain’s too hungover to hear a regular knock. 

The key turns easily and Felix lets himself in. “You better not be naked,” he calls out, closing the door behind him. “You hear me, you insufferable fool? I’ve seen you passed out on the floor in nothing one too many times, so if you are, at least put on some pants.”

The house is quiet and clean, which is immediately odd. Felix frowns. Usually, the television is on, or there’s music or the stale smell of alcohol and food that’s been left out. All the lights are off. The kitchen is clean when Felix passes by it. 

The mini-bar hasn’t been used.

Felix pauses in the living room, where Sylvain clearly didn’t sleep the night before. Even the couch blanket is folded up, carefully placed across the back of the sofa. Felix isn’t the type to worry, but there’s often a concern for Sylvain. 

Mostly because he knows that Sylvain is disgustingly reckless, and Felix is listed as his next-of-kin everywhere just in case. Felix doesn’t _want_ to be the one to arrange a funeral because he fucking hates them, so he feels like he’s allowed the occasional moment of concern. 

It’s when he strolls into Sylvain’s bedroom that the panic truly sets in. It’s a mess in here, clothes strewn about and bags everywhere. His luggage is toppled over and hanging open. His closet has been upended, more of its contents strewn across the bed and on the floor than where they actually belong. 

Felix stares at the room, mouth agape as he tries to figure out exactly what’s happened. Then he pulls out his phone, frantically hitting the third number on his speed dial. It rings way too many times before she finally picks up. 

_“Felix? Is everything okay?”_

“Mercedes, have you spoken to Sylvain?” 

_“Not since the convention. Is everything alright--”_

“He’s gone,” Felix cuts in. “Mercie, his room is a mess. His luggage is here, but he’s got other bags, so it’s not wild to think that he’s packed up and fucked off. He actually turned off the lights in his house-- doesn’t that mean he’s planning on being gone for a while? What if this is like last time? What if he’s gone and--”

 _“Felix,”_ Mercedes says firmly, but then her tone softens, smoothing into that warm and kind tone that Felix hates to love. _“Felix, calm down and take a deep breath.”_

“Mercie, I yelled at him,” Felix says. 

_“That’s nothing new,”_ she says. 

“No, you don’t get it. I said some pretty terrible shit to him, and now he’s clearly gone somewhere, and no one’s fucking heard from him and--”

_“Felix, it will be alright.”_

Felix sits on the edge of Sylvain’s bed, shoving over a pile of collared polo shirts. His head hangs, his free hand pressing into his forehead as he says, “That’s what you said last time, Mercie.” 

Just over a year ago, when he’d drunk so much that he didn’t make it home and wound up passed out in an alley instead. Thank God for a kind bystander who found Mercie’s card in his wallet, and called her after they’d called 9-1-1.

 _“I’m proud that you care,”_ Mercedes says.

Felix hates it, he _hates_ how much he cares and how defeated it makes him sound. “He’s not supposed to do this to me,” Felix says. “I’m not supposed to give a shit.”

_“There are some things that we can’t help, Felix. It’s okay to love him, even when you hate him.”_

Felix lets out a pitiful laugh as he drags a hand down his face. It’s not a secret, it’s never really been a secret, but at least Ingrid doesn’t address the elephant in the room directly. Mercedes has always had her own brand of tough love. 

_“Felix, here’s what we will do. You stay there and wait-- just in case he comes home. I’ll call local hospitals just to make sure he hasn’t found his way there.”_

“He didn’t drink last night,” Felix says. “At least, I don’t think he did. His promise to stop bar-crawling is the only promise that he’s managed to keep.”

_“That’s good then.”_

“It’s not--” Felix lets out a frustrated sigh. “I don’t even know what to think. His room looks like it’s been ransacked.”

_“Felix, what exactly did you say to him?”_

Felix bites his lip. “I lied to him. I didn’t say what I actually wanted to say.”

 _“I bet he knows that,”_ Mercedes says, and Felix can fucking hear the smile in her words. _“I bet that he just needs a few days to himself.”_

“He’s an idiot,” Felix snaps. 

_“Well of course. It’s his defining feature.”_

Felix sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Thank you Mercie,” he finally says after a long moment. “Keep an ear out. I’ll call Ingrid.”

 _“Of course.”_ She pauses and then, _“And Felix, you know that he’s only like this because--”_

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Felix cuts in. “God above, please don’t finish that sentence.” 

Mercedes doesn’t. Instead, she laughs and says, _“Good bye, Felix.”_

Felix nearly throws his phone when the line goes dead. He’d called Mercedes to panic, not to be reminded that he’s shit at communicating. And following-through. And caring. 

And being in love. _Ugh._

Unlike Mercedes, Ingrid answers immediately, an acerbic quip already on her tongue. _“So? Is he face down in his vomit?”_

“No Ingrid,” Felix says tiredly. “He’s gone.”

Felix expects her to let out an exasperated groan, but she’s uncharacteristically quiet. _“He’s what?”_ It takes Felix a moment to realize that she’s actually showing her concern, that her tone is laced with it. 

“His house is empty. His room’s a mess. I think he packed a bag-- Ingrid, he turned the fucking lights off. He never does that.”

_“Oh my God, he’s laying in a ditch somewhere. He has to be.”_

“I called Mercie,” he tells her. “She’ll check hospitals, but she thinks that he just wants some space.” Felix sighs, looking around him. “Considering that his mini-bar isn’t a fucking mess, she might actually be right.”

_“Sylvain rarely ‘needs space’, but when he does it never ends well.”_

“I know Ingrid,” Felix says. “That’s why I’m... worried.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. _“Yeah, me too.”_

“I’ll stay here for a bit and tidy up. Maybe he’ll actually call.”

Sylvain probably won’t and they both know it, but it’s better to think that he will. 

_“Yeah, okay. Keep me posted okay? I’ll call Hilda.”_

Felix winces, completely having forgotten about Sylvain’s manager. She’s a vicious hellcat, so better Ingrid than him. “Good luck and godspeed.”

All Ingrid does before hanging up is let out a little grunt.

#

They decide that it’s better to keep the fact that Sylvain is an actor a secret. 

“I don’t want to say that you should be careful around Dimitri,” Annette starts, as she turns down the covers on the bed, “But I shouldn’t lie to you either. Dimitri has his moods and we really shouldn’t, um, agitate them. Especially since Byleth isn’t here to soothe him over.”

“Byleth?” Sylvain asks.

“The Archbishop,” Annette says, is if that actually answers anything. Sylvain just stares at her dumbly. He decides to ask her later when he doesn’t feel like he’s been hit by a semi.

She’s led him into a different room than before, this one smaller and less ornate. They’d climbed the stairs to a narrow little hallway that leads to dozens more like it. It’s cozy though, books piled high, half-melted candles and papers strewn around.

“I don’t think Linhardt will mind,” she says. “It’s not as though he’s here to complain about it.” Annette sounds a little sad by that thought, leading Sylvain to immediately assume the worst outcome for the man. He’d probably died in the war.

Sylvain doesn’t know who Linhardt is and Annette doesn’t talk about him further, but he silently thanks him for the use of his room. 

Annette excuses herself for a moment to find him a set of clean sleeping clothes. “I know you brought your own,” she says, eyeing his bag warily, “and it’s not like we haven’t seen the way you dress on the other side, but that’s more privileged information than anything.”

“Annette,” Sylvain says, “Dimitri mentioned something about how we are heroes to your people?”

She sighs at that, moving to sit next to him on the edge of the mattress. “We were so impressed by the tales of your heroism, that we brought them back. Bernadetta wanted to novelize them, so Dimitri allowed her to do so.” She pauses. “Ah, you’ll meet Bernadetta later. She defected from the Empire.” 

“So there’s an expectation there, is what you’re saying.”

Annette chews on her lip before answering. “At first, it was only to boost morale. Give the people a story to cling to, and suddenly there’s a drive to do more. But when Dimitri saw the impact that Fire Emblem had on the public…”

“It led to the three of you seeking us out.”

“It’s not so simple,” Annette says. “When Dimitri says that we have no more options, it’s not for dramatic flair. We’re running out of resources, we’re losing numbers, there’s no morale. We’ve exhausted just about every idea we’ve had.” She sighs. “Lord Eliwood and his companions just come in a neatly shaped package.”

“Why think that we can make a difference?” Sylvain realizes just how rude the question is the moment he says it, so he reiterates. “Sorry, I only mean, if there’s no other option, why do you think we’d find a way?”

“Blind hope,” Annette says. “Maybe the fact that it’d be unexpected and that Edelgard wouldn’t know how to respond. She’s the kind of person that plans twenty steps in advance, and something like other-worldly heroes with unknown abilities would throw that drastically off balance.”

“Except for the fact that we’re utterly useless and quite normal.” He points to Annette. “You’ve already got us beat with magic alone. How are we going to sell this entire charade?”

“Well, you’re an actor right?”

Sylvain smirks at her and then winks. “The best around.”

#

He gets a few hours of sleep before Annette throws open the curtains just after sunrise. 

Sylvain rolls over, pulling his pillow over his head, trying to keep sleeping, but she’s relentless in her efforts. She pulls the covers straight off of him and he yelps at the sudden shock of cool air. 

“Come on, Sylvain,” she says, moving to grab the pillow next. “I’ve got something decent for you to wear. Time to meet with Dimitri, apologize for running off and get your crash course on everything about Faerghus.”

“That sounds terrible,” he groans. She yanks the pillow away and gives him an amused look. 

“Goddess, you don’t wake up handsome, do you?”

“I’ll have you know that it takes time and effort to look dashingly handsome all of the time.”

Annette quirks an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “You’re pretty tall, so I did my best to estimate your size. Even though Ferdinand is a little shorter, I think it’ll fit well enough.” She pauses and then looks back at him. “Do you _actually_ know how to ride a horse?”

It’s too early for Annette’s whirlwind of questions, but Sylvain tries his best to follow along. He sits up properly, rubbing at his eyes before standing. He holds the soft doeskin legging to his waist, frowning at how thick they were. 

It’s too hot to be wearing leather like this. 

“Actually, yes,” he says, standing there awkwardly. “I do know how to ride.” 

“What are you gawking at? Strip!” Sylvain smiles, he can’t help it, because he’s instantly reminded of Ingrid. She must have recognized his hesitation because she rolls her eyes. “I promise you, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before. I just want to make sure that you look presentable.”

Sylvain stops short at that. “Is he in a bad mood?”

Annette pauses as well, biting her lip. “Noticed that, did you?” She waves the thought away. “Not a bad one, just a weird one. He’ll probably ease up as the day wears on.”

Sylvain does as she asks, stripping off the soft cotton pants he’d slept in. 

“Breeches first,” she says, pulling the leggings from his hand and throwing him something looser instead. 

“Right,” Sylvain says dumbly, pulling them on. “Annette, no one’s going to even see this.”

“Have a little fun being authentic.” She gives him an amused smile.

Sylvain looks down at the loose underwear and then the leggings in his hands. “This really isn’t my idea of fun.” He pulls the pants on anyway. They fit well enough in the waist, but they are a little short. 

Annette gives him a critical eye and then looks to the tunics she brought with her. “Blue, I think,” she says, pulling one from the pile and tossing it to him. Sylvain slips it on, fumbling slightly as he tries to tie it closed. 

“Here, like this,” Annette says, closing the gap between them. She shows him how to tie the front closed, patting his chest lightly when she’s done. Then she regards him warily. “Are you _sure_ that you know how to ride a horse?”

“I’ve… been properly trained. I rode a real horse in the show.”

Annette hums at that. “If you say so, but it’s your hide when Ashnard bucks you right off.”

“What--”

“I’ll find you proper fitting ones later, but for now shove these on,” she says, talking right over him. She drops a pair of worn leather boots by his feet. Sylvain does as she asks, wincing slightly because they’re a little too narrow. 

When he stands, he feels awkward. Wearing his costume from the show is one thing. Donning Eliwood is almost like a comfort, intimate in a way and something that he can truly lose himself to. Turns out that actual period garments fit awkwardly, chafe in weird places, and are stupidly hot in the warm air. 

Annette looks pleased with herself though, her gaze raking from his top to his feet before she smiles wildly. “Are you hungry?”

“God, please,” Sylvain practically pleads, already pushing past her to exit the room. He pauses in the hallway and looks back at her. “Um, which way to breakfast?”

#

Dimitri isn’t at breakfast and it’s probably for the best. 

Sylvain’s not used to a savory meal in the morning-- his typical fare is some sugary cereal drenched in chocolate milk, and maybe the odd day where he has oatmeal instead-- but he’s already considering converting. 

He’s never had roasted pheasant, or even considered pairing poultry with a berry sauce, but he’d be pleased to eat literally nothing but this for the rest of his life. 

Annette watches him tear through his plate with amusement. “Tasty, huh?” 

“I just-- _Annette_ , this is--” He pauses to let out a moan, closing his eyes as he savors the taste. “Honestly, this is the best food I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a lot of good food. I’m practically an expert on fancy restaurants.”

“Honestly, we’re just lucky today. Breakfast is usually porridge and eggs, or something equally boring.”

They ease into conversation after that. Annette is easy to talk to. She’s got the drive and strength of Ingrid, but the relaxed attitude of Ashe. Sylvain’s instantly fond of her, and it’s not because she’s cute and funny, it’s because she doesn’t treat him like he’s some sort of broken human being. 

Then again, she has no idea that Sylvain is actually a mess, barely stitched together at the seams. 

“Okay, let’s go over this again,” Annette says a little bit later. Their plates have been cleared and they’ve got steaming mugs of coffee set before them. Coffee in Fodlan is pretty much glorified sludge, but it definitely works. Sylvain feels more alert than he’s been in what feels like weeks. 

“Dimitri is the king the Faerghus,” Sylvain starts, “which covers the northwest portion of Fodlan. There’s an Alliance to the east, it’s… it’s--” 

“The Leicester Alliance,” Annette supplies happily. 

“Right. That. Sorry, I’m terrible with names. You should be happy that I remembered yours.” She hums and he laughs. “Okay, then there’s the Adrestian Empire to the South.”

“Honestly, that’s the only one that you need to remember,” Annette says.

“And then you mentioned Byleth, the Archbishop. Archbishop of what?”

Annette dips a biscuit into her coffee and munches on it idly. “The church, obviously. Dimitri’s been on better behavior as of late, but usually, she’s the one that can soothe him over when he gets angry.” She sighs. “She’s off doing something super-secret-y with the church and who knows when she’ll be back.”

Sylvain nods, snatching a biscuit of his own from her plate. “So next-- Emperor Edelgard.” Sylvain pauses. “Also, why is she an Emperor? Wouldn’t she be an Empress?”

“What do you mean, _Empress?”_

“You know what? Nevermind,” Sylvain says. “Honestly, I should be glad that we speak the same language.” He pauses again. “Wait, how do we speak the same language? Surely we don’t actually…?”

Annette cocks her head to the side. “Um, super ancient Dragon’s Gate magic?”

Sylvain nods. “Right. Let’s go with that. Back to Edelgard-- she sounds so angry. _Why_ is she so angry?”

“She’s actually not,” Annette says quietly, and her sudden change in tone catches Sylvain off guard. “She’s calm and calculated, and she knows exactly what she’s doing. Everything is carefully planned with precision, and she’s good at anticipating maneuvers before we even think of them. She’s a very, _very_ dangerous enemy Sylvain. I won’t fault you if you decide to turn back.”

“No,” Sylvain says immediately, then he sighs. “Look, Annette, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, and I’m not going to get into it here. But I’m tired of being useless. You said you needed my help, so I’m here to help, in any way that I can.”

Annette looks at him, really looks at him, chin resting against the back of her palm as her elbow sits against the table. “ I know you saw him,” she finally says. “Dimitri, I mean. He’s got his moods, and not everyone is as good at adapting to them as we are. She doesn’t think that he’s fit to rule.”

Sylvain takes a sip of his coffee. “I mean, I know I haven’t been here long, but he seems to have a handle on things?”

“He manages,” Annette says. Sylvain’s got the distinct feeling that he’ll eventually see exactly what she means by that. “Anyway, she claims Fearghus as her own by right of the Empire.”

“Can she even make that claim?”

Annette sighs. “It’s a thin one. She’s tied to the Faerghan throne by marriage, not bloodline. Dimitri holds the blood right, but as the daughter of the former queen, she _does_ have a legitimate claim in the event of--”

“Incompetence,” Sylvain finishes, remembering the exact wording that Dimitri had used the day before. 

“The Empire is larger,” Annette says. “They have more people, more resources, and more power. We’ve been able to barely push back and hold them at bay, but they creep closer and closer every day. We’ve lost so much… but we’d lose more if she wins. Her ideals just aren’t made for our people.”

Sylvain is quiet for a long moment, thinking over his coffee. “Alright,” he finally says. “Then she won’t win. Simple as that.” Sylvain gives her a cheeky smile and he’s surprised by how natural it feels. 

Annette smiles back, but he looks away before he realizes that it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

#

Dimitri surprises Sylvain by shaking his hand and then pulling him into a weird side hug, his free arm wrapping around him to clap at his shoulder. When Dimitri pulls back, he grasps at Sylvain’s shoulders and shakes him slightly, and Sylvain’s again surprised by how strong the man is. 

“I’m glad, you’ve come back, my lord. Truly, I cannot express how grateful I am.” Then Dimitri pauses. “Have you brought the others?”

Sylvain winces, shrugging out of his grip. “I’m afraid that they had other obligations and were unable to come.” 

Dimitri sighs. “A shame then,” he says, sounding genuinely saddened by their lack of presence. “I would have loved to meet them-- the Sword Demon in particular.” Dimitri then leans forward, lowering his voice a fraction like he’s about to spill some sort of secret. 

“Is he truly as caustic in person?”

“He’s worse,” Sylvain deadpans, and Dimitri laughs, thinking that it’s a joke. 

“Well then, let us get to it. Come, meet some of the council,” Dimitri steps to the side, sweeping his hand to the war table. There are a few people sitting there, but most of the seats are empty. Sylvain frowns. Annette had said they’d lost quite a few earlier, but it seems worse than he’d been warned. 

“Bernadetta and Ferdinand,” Dimitri introduces. “They’ve defected from the Empire and bring us invaluable intelligence. And Anna. She’s--”

“I’m who to talk to you if you need things, okay?”

Sylvain blinks. “Er, things?”

“You know, knives, swords of Zoltan, lubricants, and oils for bedroom purposes--” 

“Anna,” Dedue cuts in, his voice crisp. She pouts for a second and then winks at Sylvain, and it’s way too similar to his own signature expression for his liking. Suddenly, he gets Ingrid’s comment of _it makes my skin crawl._

“Alois,” Dimitri continues, shooting his own warning glare to Anna. She sits back in her chair, arms crossed and face pinched in sudden disinterest. Next to her is an older man with a jovial smile on his face, and he waves when his name is called. “He’s been a fixture around here since… well, since before I was born. He heads our main force.” 

Then Dimitri pauses dramatically, turning back to Sylvain. Everyone follows his gaze. “Everyone, this is… Well, you know who he is,” Dimitri says, waving to Sylvain. “Lord Eliwood, Marquess of Pherae, Hero of Elibe. He’s come a long way to help us.” 

Sylvain stands there awkwardly as the room stares at him. He’s used to the attention, hell he thrives on it, but for some reason this time around, he only feels kinda ill. It’s probably because they aren’t here for him, they’re here for Eliwood. 

“It’s an honor to be here,” he finally says, falling into his well-practiced role and offering a little wave.

“Here, sit,” Annette says, pulling out a chair and practically dragging him to it. God bless Annette, Sylvain thinks, and he knows that it won’t be the last time. She settles into the one directly next to him.

“It is a shame that Byleth will miss this,” Dimitri says forlornly. “But her efforts were needed elsewhere. She’s left the Monastery in our capable hands, which brings me to the bulk of our meeting.”

Dimitri assumes his position near the map, which is still spread across the table. “Ferdinand has brought us intel that Edelgard herself has joined the field to survey her main force. She has requested a meeting on the field.”

Annette starts, surprised. “Dimitri, do you think it smart to--”

“This might be our only opportunity to get close to her, Annette.” Dimitri sighs, running a hand through his long hair. “I could be bait,” he says. “I don’t like it, but she doesn’t know Eliwood’s face. He might be able to take her by surprise.”

“Surely she has bodyguards?” It’s the first thing that Sylvain’s said since the tactics meeting properly started, and everyone in the room looks to him. 

“Hubert,” someone blurts from across the table. Bernadetta. She’s a mousy little thing with oddly purple hair. She tries to meet Sylvain’s face, but then immediately looks away. Then it clicks; Bernadetta is the woman who’d authored their tales for the general public. 

“I-- er, Hubert,” Bernadetta repeats, this time her voice a little bit stronger. “He rarely leaves her side.”

“It’s true,” Ferdinand says. Sylvain remembers that this is the man Annette had borrowed his clothes from. He’s tall and pale, with long ginger hair that’s tied half back. A smattering of freckles dot across his face. “He’s got this sort of sixth sense about her, too. Sneaking up on her won’t be easy.”

Sylvain decides to try a different tactic. “Is she aware of who I am?” 

Dimitri levels him with a long, curious glance. “She would likely be aware of the stories, yes. Your current presence is somewhat of a secret, though. At the moment.”

“What if I ride out with you? If the stories of my feats are truly as heroic as every one feels, then surely she’d be apprehensive?”

“It would be a terrible idea to risk your safety.” It’s Ferdinand again, voice laced with concern. “Edelgard isn’t the type to request an audience without a trick up her sleeve, let alone on the battlefield proper.”

Sylvain gets a sudden idea. “Hang on, listen,” he says. “Your highness--”

“Dimitri, please,” Dimitri murmurs.

“Dimitri,” Sylvain amends, “you ride out with bannermen, correct?” Dimitri nods. “Perfect. Instead of your usual bannerman, take a group of mages instead. Once they’re all dressed up in your colors, they’ll never know the difference.”

“She expects us to abide by the parley,” Dedue says with a frown. Sylvain wonders if the man ever smiles. 

Sylvain points to Ferdinand. “He just said that Edelgard wouldn’t call you out to the field if she wasn’t planning something herself. We might as well bring our own knife to the fight.”

“Marquess Erik!” Bernadetta blurts randomly. Everyone turns to her, confused, even Sylvain. She stiffens under the scrutiny, wringing her fingers nervously as she continues. “Um, you know, Marquess of Laus. Lord Eliwood, you rode out to meet him before you did battle.”

Sylvain knows exactly what she’s talking about. Season two, episode fourteen. “Erik of Laus rode out under parley, instead intending to lure us into a trap. We didn’t fall for it and, because we were prepared, we came out on top.”

Annette bites her lip before speaking. “The Blue Lion Magic Corps,” she says. “I know that at least half of them can ride a horse decently. Slap a uniform on them and they just might work.”

Dimitri thinks long and hard about the entire thing. “If she is caught unaware, we might have a chance. If we can separate her from Hubert, we might even be able to take her down entirely. Ferdinand, I… I hate to ask this of you but--”

“I’ll do it,” Ferdinand says quietly. “I’ll send him a discreet letter. I can’t guarantee that he’ll answer, but there’s a chance.”

Sylvain blinks. “Wait, why would you--”

Annette kicks him in the shin underneath the table. Hard. He hisses suddenly, throwing a sharp glare at her, but she shakes her head in response, telling him to drop it. Oh. _Oh._ Sylvain looks back at Ferdinand, who’s currently pressing a hand against his forehead in grief.

And Sylvain thinks he and Felix have it bad, at least they’re on the same side. Kind of. 

“Three day’s time,” Dimitri murmurs, more to himself than the room proper. “Alois, is there enough time to prep the Corps? Find them uniforms and horses?”

“I can manage!” 

Dimitri moves one little horse figurine to the middle of the map. Sylvain realizes that the name of the place is in a script that he doesn’t recognize. “Gronder Field,” Dimitri says. “A little bit ironic.” 

Suddenly, it’s like he remembers there are other people in the room. “Meeting adjourned. Get some rest, everyone.” Then he pauses, looking at Annette and Sylvain. “And for the love of the Goddess, Annette, find him some clothes that actually fit.”

#

Turns out, Ashnard is more of a dastard than Annette had made him out to be. 

“Woah,” Sylvain says, silently pleading for the horse to calm his fucking shit. The horse bucks wildly under him, gray and black speckled coat rippling over its muscles. Sylvain manages to hold on, but just barely. 

Annette watches, amused, from the ground. “I warned you,” she says. “He’s a slippery one.”

“And so you gave him to me?” Sylvain yells. “That’s rather cruel.”

“I think that he’ll warm up to you,” Annette says. “Besides, he needs the exercise.”

“He needs the- _\- Annette!”_

Annette laughs. “Alright, alright,” she says, reaching out to smooth her hand over Ashnard’s snout. “There, there boy.” Sylvain doesn’t miss the soft glow at her fingertips, but the horse calms, before stilling entirely. Then it snorts against her face. 

“That should last for a bit, but I can’t make it a habit.”

“It only needs to last as long as the parley,” Sylvain says. He looks down at her, smiling easily as his heart slows back down. “Annette, honestly, what would I do without you?”

She’s stroking Ashnard’s noise idly, when she asks, “Sylvain, you seem to think that people don’t care about you.”

Sylvain opens his mouth and then clams up, snapping his lips shut. She glances up a small little frown on her face. “They care,” he finally says. “I mean, I know that they do, otherwise they wouldn’t always be so angry at me.”

Annette watches him for a long moment and then says, “There weren’t _other obligations_ , were there?” She’s talking about Felix and Ingrid, and the others, remembering what he had told Dimitri a few days prior. And of course, there weren’t, Sylvain hadn’t even mentioned to them. He could only imagine their reaction if he had. 

“I admire everyone’s camaraderie here,” Sylvain says. “Everyone seems to get along and work together so well, and maybe it’s because it’s war, or that you have no other choices, but it’s really admirable.” 

Annette lets out a long sigh, turning back to Ashnard as she runs her fingers down the front of his snout. “Don’t fool yourself into thinking that we have our shit together, Sylvain. That’d be more ridiculous than the fact that you’re an actor.”

Sylvain’s gaze narrows and he’s about to ask her what exactly she means, but Ferdinand sweeps up to his side on his own tan-colored Waler. “My lord,” he greets, with a little nod. “Are you ready to move out?”

Sylvain had thought that he’d be unsure, but he’s surprised to feel exactly the opposite, and maybe it’s because faith has been put into his hands for once, and that he’s got something to prove. Normally, he wears Eliwood like a skin, slipping into a perfectly crafted role that he’s honed over the years, but this time it feels like he really _is_ Eliwood; like he’s finally channeling that inner strength that he’s pretended to have for years. 

Annette pats his calf gently, surprising him. “There’s still time to pull back,” she says, giving him a genuine out. It’s because she knows that this isn’t really his place. 

Sylvain’s going to prove her wrong, he’s going to prove them all wrong. 

“I’m quite ready,” he says, gripping his reins tightly and looking back to Ferdinand. 

Ferdinand is dressed in high quality riding leathers. His ginger hair is pulled back into a ponytail to keep it out of his way, and while his armor is pitted and dented with age and use, it’s been polished to a high shine. 

Fitting, Sylvain thinks, considering that they’re meeting with an Emperor. Even he’d been gifted a new set of clothes, courtesy of Anna with a quirk of her mouth and a wink. Sylvain had spent the night prior, chatting with Annette and polishing his riding boots until they gleamed. 

“Be careful,” Annette says to him, fingers wrapped lightly around his ankle. 

“Oh Annette,” Sylvain says, flashing her his signature smile. “Who do you take me for?”

She lets go, an odd little grin spreading across her face. Then she pats at his leg before stepping back fully. “I’ll be back here,” she says. “You know, guarding the rear.” He can hear the annoyance in her tone. Sylvain’s got the distinct feeling that Annette likes being at the center of the action, and honestly, she’s probably better there. 

He also knows that there’s a distinct lack of healers after the Archbishop had taken an entire slew with her, on whatever her secret mission was. Sylvain already doesn’t like Byleth, and he’s not sure that his opinion will actually change if they ever get the chance to meet. 

“All right then,” Ferdinand says.“To his highness then?” He turns his horse and rides north. 

Sylvain shoots one last look at Annette, who regards him with a slightly worried smile. His expression softens slightly and he gives her another grin. This one is his real one, the one where his lips are only slightly turned, and his eyes get all crinkly with little crow’s feet, and for once in his dumb life, he looks like the real deal. 

“I’ll see you later,” he says, and it’s the first real promise that he’s made in what feels like a decade. 

#

“This field used to mean something to us,” Dimitri says.

Grondor Field is wide and flat, covered in soft, rolling grassland. There’s an ancient, crumbling shrine that’s near the center, and that’s where Edelgard has requested to meet them. They wait at the northwestern edge, sitting astride their horses as they survey Adrestia’s forces before them. 

There are too many people for Sylvain’s taste, but he hasn’t lost the bravado that he’s managed to muster. If anything, it makes him itch to do something more. Something sooner. 

Instead, he looks to Dimitri, interested. “Oh?”

“Garreg Mach, the Monastery,” Dimitri says. “It used to be a school. The Officer’s Academy, where the nobility of our nations would come and learn the art of warfare.”

“In theory, I assume.”

“In theory,” Dimitri confirms. “Edelgard and I were close when we were younger. As we aged, we grew far apart like so many do, and then one day, it was like I didn’t know her at all.”

“Anything to do with the eye?” Sylvain asks with a bit of levity because the moment is tense. Annette’s warned him about pushing Dimitri’s buttons, and he wonders if this is the wrong direction to go. 

Dimitri hesitates, before he says, “No, that is a separate issue.” A pause. “But the end result hasn’t painted me in a good light, I will admit. Edelgard is overly critical of my abilities as king, and she thinks that she is the better choice.”

“So she wants to absorb Faerghus into the Empire,” Sylvain surmises. 

“We cannot allow it to happen. Her lofty ideas, her dubious morals… I will not allow it.”

Sylvain thinks for a moment, looking back out at the expanse of prairie. “Do you think that Ferdinand will manage to distract her bodyguard?”

“I think that there is nothing that Hubert won’t do if only to speak to him for a moment.”

Sylvain doesn’t like it, using Ferdinand’s apparent relationship to get close to the Emperor, but he also knows that it’s their only chance. He’d made a promise to Dimitri and to himself. 

“Right then,” Sylvain eventually says. “Is there any point in delaying the inevitable?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Dimitri says. He looks to Sylvain before leaning over and reaching out to clasp a hand against his shoulder. It’s awkward with the horses, but they manage. “Lord Eliwood, thank you.”

Sylvain lets out a little huff of amusement. “Hey, let’s not treat this like it’s our last day, okay?”

Dimitri smiles softly. “Not our last day, but rather the first of a new dawn.” He kicks his horse into gear, galloping from Sylvain. Sylvain watches him for a long moment before he takes a deep breath and follows right behind. 

It’s different than a television show. 

Well, a lot of things are vastly different than that. There are no cameras on tracks, panning wide and high. There’s no production team just off to the side, barking orders and directions and cuts and do-overs. Wardrobe isn’t there to annoy him about spilling coffee on his neatly embroidered tunic, and there are no continuity checks to make sure that everything is right between takes. 

It’s hot in the direct sunlight and Sylvain’s sweating like a pig. He’s thankful for the thick riding leathers though because he can already feel the chafing from the hard saddle that he sits atop. 

The army that surrounds him aren’t barely-paid extras; these are real, living, breathing soldiers, done up in their armored finery. They hold very real weapons and while they aren’t brandishing them, they watch carefully as they trot through the ranks. 

The Blue Lions Magic Corps trail behind them, disguised as bannermen. There’s effortless ease to them, and they don’t look remotely nervous. Sylvain’s oddly, still not either, but he’s not sure how long that’ll last. 

As promised, Ashnard is behaving, so, Sylvain sits up straight and grips the reigns tight. Forward march, right behind Dimitri as they file through the crowd. 

“This isn’t remotely her full force,” Dimitri had told him earlier. 

That makes Sylvain hesitate, but only for a moment, and then he’s slipping back into Eliwood, a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. Eliwood’s been up against worse odds. 

Sylvain trusts Ferdinand, and in his ability to give them the upper hand. He’s only known him for a few days, but like Annette, they’d instantly clicked, bonding over food and similar tastes in tea, and how to perfect soft ringlets of hair.

They reach the shrine near the middle of the field and pause. Ashnard shakes his head with nervous energy, and Sylvain reaches out to soothe a hand across the crown of his head.

Maybe it’s because Sylvain is used to the way television villains look, with their dark and gritty character designs, and tendency to compensate with overacting, but the Emperor isn’t what he expects.

Edelgard is a short little thing, dwarfed by her brilliant red cloak. She sits astride a massive destrier, its cloak sleek and black as pitch. Her platinum hair is coiled with careful precision around her head, topped with ominous-looking, gold-plated horns. 

Forrest would complain that her outfit is overdesigned, but give her credit for being fully clothed. This isn’t the film industry though, and it’s not about luxury fabrics, and how colors translate through the camera, and what kind of feeling a bad guy should invoke. This is real. 

Edelgard holds herself high as she regards them with a cool gaze. She looks dangerous, she _feels_ dangerous, and Sylvain knows instantly why everyone is so on guard around her. He swallows thickly, reminding himself that he’s not Sylvain, but that he’s Eliwood. Marquess of Pherae. A descendant of Roland, heir of the blade Durandal. He’s killed a dragon. 

“I’ve heard speak of a well- known hero,” Edelgard says from atop her horse. A hand rests casually on the axe at her side, larger than she is. “Whispers of a lord from the mouths of my men.” Her lips purse as she regards from Sylvain top to bottom. 

“I must say, now that we’re face to face, I don’t think you are nearly as impressive as the stories imagine you to be.”

“Edelgard,” Dimitri calls out, and while his tone is calm, the name comes out with that sharp edge that Sylvain’s been warned about.

“Dimitri,” she greets coolly. She looks at him like he’s a bug underneath her shoe. 

“I will admit,” Dimitri says, “I’m surprised that you requested this meeting.”

Edelgard frowns slightly at that. “I may be a lot of things, Dimitri, but I’m at least honorable. Should I not extend the opportunity for you to surrender?”

“I’ve told you before, I will do no such thing.”

She sighs at that, just a small little huff. “You and I both know that you cannot hold on much longer,” she says. “You’ve become so desperate that you cling to the coattails of a has-been hero, who can barely hold himself upright on a horse.”

“Hey!” Sylvain’s outburst causes her to pause and give him another once over, leveling him with an unimpressed look. Then she turns back to Dimitri. 

“Once more, I extend this offer to you. Surrender Dimitri, and I will ensure your safety and that of your people. I have no wish to spill blood when I can avoid it.”

Dimitri growls in response. “You have decimated entire villages in your pursuit northwards.”

Edelgard’s expression is pinched. “I said when I can avoid it. There are times when casualties are expected, but I believe that you of all people Dimitri, would understand that.”

The tone of the conversation has shifted, and Sylvain’s suddenly on the defensive. Dimitri doesn’t immediately retort, he only glowers back at her. There’s something far deeper here than just two siblings who used to be close; something about this entire exchange is incredibly personal. 

“I wonder, Edelgard,” Dimitri finally says, “who of the two of us, is truly the worse person? Wasn’t it _you_ who ordered the coup in which our parents were assassinated?”

Sylvain’s mouth opens slightly at the accusation. Oh. _Oh, that’s really fucking messy._ It’s also a storyline that would fit right in with Fire Emblem, and the dramatic irony isn’t lost on him, not one bit. 

“My father ordered it,” Edelgard says curtly. “I only carried it out.”

“And my actions are a direct result of that.”

Edelgard lets out a sigh that sounds long-suffered and tired. “I am losing my patience, Dima. Will you surrender or not?” 

Dimitri immediately bristles at the nickname, hand curling into a tight fist that rests on his knee. Sylvain reaches out to grab his wrist gently, a trick that Annette had shown him. “Dimitri,” he warns calmly. 

“Yes, Dimitri,” Edelgard says with a smile. It’s a cruel twist of her lips, sardonic instead of kind, and she looks like a predator sizing up its prey. “Listen to your new little pet--”

“Hey, Emperor!” Sylvain shouts. He pulls away from Dimitri and turns to her fully. “Is that all you do? Sling insults, while you let your men fight your battles for you?”

Edelgard blinks. “Oh, so he does speak,” she observes. “Too bad it’s the useless prattle of--”

“Where’s your bodyguard?” Sylvain suddenly asks her. “Hubert, I think?” Sylvain knows it’s a risky move, to mock her, but she plays along. He remembers the name, because it’s an odd one, and it makes in think of another odd co-star from back in the day.

“Hubert is right here,” she says, holding a hand to her side as she turns to look. There’s no one there though, the space next to her horse empty. Her mouth twitches downward, as though she weren’t expecting it. Sylvain can’t help the small grin that spreads across his face. She’s been caught off guard. 

Sylvain raises his arm, the signal that they’d settled on. The moment his arm drops, the Magic Corp will blast her with a spell. Edelgard regards him in confusion but then seems to realize what’s about to happen. Her mouth twists into anger, ready to yell a command as her hand drops to her axe. 

Dimitri is already digging his heels into his horse, pulling around to gallop away. Edelgard shouts an order to the bannermen near her, but it’s too late.

He drops his arm with a shout and the air around them turns brilliant and crisp, as ice cuts through the field. There’s a blast, rock, and soil exploding around them. Edelgard’s horse rears back and she’s not prepared, toppling off and tumbling into the din around them. There are fog and mist, and the screaming of her men, surprised by the onslaught. 

Sylvain can’t stay to watch any longer, he’s got to get out before he’s trapped in the aftermath. Ashnard is a tricky horse, but he’s been trained around magic. He doesn’t panic. Sylvain grips the reins hard and turns him, running at a full gallop past their men. The mages yell out more spells, and the ground rumbles underneath them as the ground cracks and splits open. 

“Hyah!” Sylvain yells, snapping at his reins. His horse follows the command, turning to follow in the direction that Dimitri went. 

Sylvain’s heart is pounding, and it’s not the type of pounding that he’d get while filming an impactful scene. He’s running high on adrenaline, chest-bursting with it as he rides through the field. Soldiers swipe at him and he ducks low, leaning into his saddle. 

It’s a rush. It’s thrilling. Sylvain never wants the feeling to end. 

They’ve done it, they’ve managed to catch her off guard and take her down. There isn’t a chance in hell that she’s managed to get away.

#

The water is ice cold against his face and Sylvain is absolutely beat. Now that the adrenaline has worn off and he’s tucked safely into his borrowed room at the Monastery, he feels the results of their effort that day. 

His thighs are chapped, and there’s an ache deep at the base of his spine from sitting atop a horse for the better part of the day. 

There’s a knock at his door before it pops open, Annette’s head peeks around the corner. 

Sylvain looks up and smiles. “Hey, you.”

“Are you busy?” she asks.

“Nah, just washing up. Come in?”

Annette does, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Sylvain grabs a small rag, toweling off his face. 

“So,” she starts, sitting on the edge of the small mattress, “how was it?” He knows that she’s not talking about the outcome of their coup.

“God, Annette,” Sylvain starts. “It was indescribable. The way that battle felt-- I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“And, you came back in one piece.”

“I promised you.” Sylvain pauses, his gaze softening. “Actually, it’s the first promise I’ve kept in a long time, I think.” He tosses the rag onto the washbasin. Then, he crosses the room and settles against the mattress, laying longwise. His legs are sore and he just lets his weight sink in.

Annette shifts to do the same. They stare at the ceiling in the quiet, but it’s a comforting silence, not an awkward one. It’s nice to not _have_ to talk, to just enjoy another’s presence instead. Sylvain’s surprised to find that it’s the only thing he wants; he doesn’t want anything else from her. 

Finally, Annette says, “So, you go back tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Sylvain says, but it falls a little flat. Part of him doesn’t want to. That part likes it here, in the simplicity of this fantasy world, even with its lack of convenience and dangerous war. That part of him kind of wants to stay and forget. 

But he can’t. 

“They didn’t find her body,” Sylvain says, “but Dimitri told me that it isn’t uncommon with that level of spell.”

Annette hums in agreement. “He’s right. At close range like that, there’s often nothing left.” 

“So, this is probably it, then. Your war is probably over.”

Annette is quiet for a long moment and then says, “It will be odd. We’ve been fighting for so long, that it will be strange to be free of it.”

“But good,” Sylvain says. 

“But good,” she confirms. 

There’s another comfortable silence as they stare off blankly. Annette breathes low and slow, and Sylvain focuses on the soft rhythm. 

“They hate me. The rest of the cast I mean.” He’s not sure why he says it, but he thinks that Annette listens. “Ingrid-- that’s Lyn-- I know that she cares, but she’s quick to anger, and I’ve always pissed her off. I’m the popular one and I can’t help it, but I could definitely insist on working with all of them.

“But I don’t. I’d rather keep a distance because it’s easier to hate myself when I’m by myself.”

“Sylvain, that’s a little messed up,” Annette says, but he smiles because he appreciates her honesty. She’s been brutal with it since day one, and it’s a breath of fresh air when you’re used to everyone dancing around you. 

“It’s not a little, it’s a lot,” he says, and then he sighs. “And with Felix…” 

“With Felix?” she asks when he trails off and doesn’t elaborate. 

“Karel, sorry,” he murmurs, forgetting that she only knows them as characters. “With Felix, it’s extra complicated.”

“Because you love him, right?”

Sylvain’s mouth flops open at the accusation. He turns in the bed to look at her properly, head propped up by his hand. “How did you know that?”

Annette turns to him, mirroring the pose. “I saw the show, Sylvain. I was never sold on Ninian, you know, not with you ogling Karel every time he stepped on screen.”

“I didn’t _ogle_ him--” He stops dead at the unamused look she gives him. Sylvain winces. “Okay, so maybe I did a _little--”_

“Look, I agree that he’s got a nice ass.”

Sylvain groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Look, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Alright,” she says simply, dropping the topic. 

And he doesn’t, but he’s also itching to get it out, because Annette is warm and soft, and he really wants to open up to her. In a totally non-sexual way, and considering his complicated history with women, that’s something different. 

“I’ve loved him since I was like twelve,” he says, instantly wanting to kick himself. “Maybe even earlier. Hell, I’m not sure that I can think of a time where I didn’t love him.”

“Maybe you should tell him that,” Annette says. 

Sylvain’s lips quirk into a sad, ironic little smile. “He knows,” he says quietly. “That’s why it’s complicated.”

Annette’s mouth curls into a little ‘o’. “Because he doesn’t love you back?”

“Because he _does_.”

Annette blinks, and then she sits up properly, gaze narrowing. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Sylvain shrugs. “As I said, it’s complicated.” He pauses and then, “That’s a major reason why I came back, actually. He said some really shitty stuff about me that was absolutely true. I finally decided to fucking do something about it. I mean, I thought if I could make a difference here, then I could go back and…”

He sighs. “I’m not sure that I can patch things up, but I want to try at least. I owe them that much. They’ve put up with my shit far longer than anyone else would have.”

Annette’s sitting cross-legged across the quilt now, chin resting in her hand as she looks at him. “It’s because they love you,” she says. 

“Yeah, they do,” he agrees. 

“Well, that’s a start.”

Sylvain’s tired and bone-weary, and he’s ready for bed. At the same time… “Annette,” he says, “I’ll miss you.”

Annette smiles wildly in return. “Oh I know,” she says. “I’m just that lovable. But… for the record, I’ll miss you too.”

She leaves not long after, blowing out the candles, driving the room into pitch darkness. Sylvain sleeps well and full, feeling fully resting in the morning. Annette rises with the dawn, so he does too when she throws the curtains open. 

Later on, they stand before the Dragon’s Gate. This time, it’s not scary or overwhelming. If anything, it’s comforting with its dull thrum of energy. 

Dimitri reaches out to clasp his arm and pat his shoulder. “Lord Eliwood,” he says, “words cannot describe how thankful I am for your help.”

“I only gave you an idea,” Sylvain says. 

“While that may be, you also drove the morale of our men to follow through. We are forever in your debt.” Dimitri pauses, his grip tightening slightly. “You truly are the hero, as you are documented to be.”

Sylvain’s throat goes dry. He sees Annette stiffen slightly, and then frown. Sylvain wants to tell him, he wants Dimitri to know the truth. That he’s nothing but a jerk of a man who’s been a little lucky in life. 

He doesn’t. “Thank you,” he says instead. “And good luck.” 

Dimitri offers him a smile and they let go. Dedue doesn’t say much, just shakes his hand and offers him a small nod. Sylvain wishes they had interacted more, but Dedue could be surprisingly elusive when he wants to be. 

Annette bites her lip when he turns to her, and then says, “I’m closing the gate back up, after you.”

“It’s safer that way,” Sylvain says, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth. Then, Annette tackles him with a hug. Sylvain drops his bag and hugs her back fiercely, pulling her close. “I will really, _really_ will miss you,” he says. 

“Hang in there,” she says to him, pulling back and kissing him on the forehead. “It’ll be okay.”

Sylvain smiles, leaning over her. “Yeah,” he says, pressing a kiss back to her temple. “Yeah, okay.” They part and Sylvain grabs his bag. 

It’s been a long time since he’s felt satisfied with himself and what he’s done, but he lets the feeling settle deep in his bones, letting out a well-deserved sigh of relief. Then, Sylvain gives them one last look and a small wave, before he steps into the gate for the last time.

#

Sylvain wakes to a loud pounding against his front door. He throws himself up in a panic, thinking that it might be Annette or Dimitri, but then he calms. It can’t be. It won’t be. Annette had closed the gate behind him. 

He rubs at his eyes sleepily as he yawns, pulling at the little crusties that stubbornly stick to his lashes. 

The pounding stops briefly, only to resume louder, and Sylvain groans, dragging his hand down his face tiredly. He knows who it is. Felix is about to kick down his damn door. 

Sylvain’s pulling on some sleep pants when Felix stops and opens the door with his spare key, like a civilized human being. 

They both pause, staring at each other. Sylvain halfway into a shirt and Felix with his hand fisted around a key ring. 

Felix is the first to speak. “Glad to see that you’re alive,” he snaps acerbically, slamming the door shut behind him. “Nice of you to leave a fucking message, telling us that you’re okay. By the third day, I was actually worried for your sorry ass, but then I came here and it was clear that you had packed up and--” He lets out a frustrated growl, running his hand through his hair. 

It really takes everything for Sylvain to not quip about his hair extensions. Felix is in a bad mood though, and Sylvain knows better than to poke at a wasp’s nest. Especially when Felix is holding a set of keys, which could be considered a deadly weapon in his hand. 

He always took his combat training seriously.

“Now, Felix--” Sylvain starts. 

“Stop!” Felix cuts in. “Don’t you dare with that tone. A _week_ , Sylvain. Think about the last time that we hadn’t heard from you in a week.”

Sylvain swallows. He remembers. They don’t really talk about that, but it’s been thusly labeled, _the week that Sylvain ruined any chance that he ever had with Felix._

“I’m fine,” he says, lamely.

“Clearly!” Felix scoffs like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “This is exactly what the problem is,” he says tiredly. That’s when Sylvain really sees him. Felix looks exhausted, hair hanging limply around his face, the circles under his eyes deeper than usual.

Sylvain sighs, “I’m sorry that I worried all of you--”

“That apology means nothing,” Felix says quietly. Sylvain frowns because quiet Felix is way, _way_ worse than angry Felix. It means that he’s transcended outrage, being left with only weary fatigue. The kind that makes you murder someone in cold blood. “Shit Sylvain, we’re tired of this. It’s time for you to grow the fuck up.”

“That’s exactly what I was doing,” Sylvain says. 

The look that Felix shoots him is truly incredulous. “Are you serious? Fucking off for a week, without any word? That’s growing up?”

“Felix, let me explain--”

“No,” Felix snaps. “I just-- No, Sylvain. _Don’t.”_ Sylvain doesn’t. Instead, he stands there pathetically, not really knowing what to say. Finally, Felix lets out a groan of annoyance. 

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he says. “ _We_ don’t know what to do with you, so we’re saying no. No more bullshit.”

“That’s what I’m trying to say,” Sylvain tries to cut in. “I’ve turned over a new leaf--”

“And what? That automatically fixes everything?” Felix levels him with a glare that cuts right to the bone. “Sylvain, it’s too late, and it’s been too late for too long. We’re finally cutting the cord.” 

“Felix--”

“One too many times,” Felix says. “Just one too many times. I hope that it was worth it.” He doesn’t say goodbye as he storms back out the front door.

Sylvain stands there, trying to absorb everything that’s just happened. It takes a moment for it to really sink in, that he’s really, _really_ fucked it up this time. _It’ll be alright,_ Annette had told him. _They love you._

Of course, they do; it’s why they’re so pissed at him. The problem is, when they act like this, Sylvain can’t fix it. 

The other problem is, that when Felix leaves without a goodbye, he means it. 

The next few weeks go by in a blur. 

Hilda’s still pissed at him, but she’s managed to book gigs at least-- notably without the rest of the cast. In fact, she doesn’t even mention them, so he knows that Ingrid’s given her a call. 

Sylvain does as he’s told. He smiles for pictures, he repeats favorite lines. He signs little prints and dedicates them to his fans. It’s not the only time he’s gone this alone, but it feels too quiet without Felix’s sharp words and Ingrid’s grousing. 

He doesn’t sleep well, barely dozing through the long nights. Sylvain doesn’t drink either, and while doing this entire song and dance entire sober isn’t fun, his fuck-up means a little bit more when he can remember it in the morning. 

_Pushing through your issues,_ Hilda likes to say. Sylvain doesn’t feel like he’s pushing, it’s more like slogging through life, but he thinks that he’ll eventually get there. As long as he stops watching reruns with the sole purpose of ogling Felix’s ass. 

Two months after the entire _Felix walks right out of his life_ disaster, Sylvain wakes up to a pounding on his door. It’s a frantic sort of knocking, heavily placed and sounding more like a kick, and--

Well, only Felix pounds on the door like that. 

Sylvain doesn’t even bother with pants, answering the door bare-chested and in his boxer-briefs. 

Only it’s not Felix. In fact, Sylvain has to be dreaming, because the sight before him absolutely doesn’t make sense. 

It’s Annette, and she lets out a frantic and relieved sigh at the sight of him. 


	6. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s another stretch of silence, and then Annette says, “They’re going to come, and Felix will be there.” Annette remembers his name easily because complaining about the man is all that Sylvain’s done in the several days that she’s stayed with him. 

**_Chapter Five_ **

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” she breathes, pushing him to the side as she invites herself into his home. 

Sylvain gapes, watching as she pauses to look at a poster from the show that he has hanging on the wall. She reaches out to press a hand against it, a strange sort of somber look passing over her face. 

“Um, Annette?” Sylvain says, and she nearly jumps, like she’s forgotten entirely that he’s there. 

“Shit, ah, sorry, I’m just--”

“Annette,” he says again, this time quieter. “Look, let me get dressed. That’s the kitchen. Go sit and I’ll be right in.” She does as she’s told, and he retreats back to his room to throw on a pair of sweatpants, and the cleanest shirt that he can find. 

He finds Annette sitting at his small kitchen table, elbow on the hard counter with her forehead pressed into it. She’s haggard, deeps shadows cut deeply under her eyes as she massages her temple gently. She’s forgone her embroidered finery, swimming in riding pants and a cream-colored blouse that’s several sizes too large. 

Sylvain says nothing as he sets a kettle to boil and pulls out a tea tin. When the tea is done, he sits next to Annette, not opposite, pulling the chair around the corner to be closer. 

“Edelgard isn't dead,” is the first thing that she says, taking the cup from his hand. “She’s not-- Sylvain, she’s _furious._ ”

“She seems the angry sort.” Sylvain knows that it’s not the time for jokes when Annette doesn’t even spare the quip an annoyed glance. He immediately backpedals. “Sorry, um--”

“No, no, you don’t--” She sighs. “Edelgard attacked Garreg Mach. The Archbishop hadn’t returned yet, and we weren’t expecting it. And really, we _should_ have, just in case, but you know how things go when you’re running on the high of victory and--”

“Annette, you’re rambling,” Sylvain says gently. He points to her tea. “Take a deep breath.”

She does, followed by a sip of the tea. 

“Okay, try again,” Sylvain says. 

“She attacked the Monastery directly with her main force. We’re in shambles, Sylvain. People are dead, others are dying. We have little in the way of supplies, and can’t get anything out or in. Byleth is a quiet person, but I can tell that she’s _pissed_ to the Garland Moon, and Dimitri--” She swallows thickly. “He’s barely hanging on.”

Sylvain’s mouth sets into a straight, thin little line. “Then my plan didn’t work.”

“Oh, Sylvain, this isn’t your fault,” she says softly, reaching out to touch his arm. 

“Of course it is,” he mutters. “Can’t fix my own damn problems, why’d I think that I could help you--”

“Sylvain,” Annette cuts in, “we want you to come back. Our people can pull through this, but they need leadership. They need a reason to.”

Sylvain bursts out laughing, and it’s a sardonic and toxic little sound because he really shouldn’t be amused by that. “Annette, I’m a fucking actor. It’s dumb to think I’m anything more.”

“Our people were hanging on by a thread before you came the last time. The moment they saw you at the helm, they rallied. And no, our plan might not have stuck in the end, but it’s the fucking closest we’ve gotten to ending her in a decade. _A decade,_ Sylvain.”

Sylvain’s stopped laughing. Instead, he stares at his mug of tea. 

“Do it for me,” she says. “Sylvain, we’ve lost all the hope that we had left. I’ve lost hope, so if not for them, come back and do it for me.”

He hates being backed into a corner that he literally can’t escape from, because _dammit,_ he can’t say no to her. And then he has a thought, a very dangerous, ill-planned thought, but a thought nonetheless. And honestly, Sylvain’s had worse ideas. 

“If you think that I will make that much of a difference, what do you think would happen if I can get the rest of the crew on board?”

Annette looks at him fully, lips spreading into a smile. “I think that we might actually win the war.”

Sylvain wishes he could smile back. “Okay then, new plan.”

“New plan,” she repeats. 

“One problem,” he says. “They hate me.”

“We’ve established this before,” Annette says. 

Sylvain winces, before looking anywhere other than her face. “Yeah, about that-- turns out that love can’t fix everything. I haven’t spoken to them in months.”

“They refuse to?” she asks.

“Yeah-- _Ow, what the fuck, Annette?”_

Annette’s gone and smacked him hard across the shoulder. “You’re seriously going to leave it at that?” She lets out a dramatic groan. _“Men.”_

Sylvain thinks. He thinks, and thinks, and thinks, hands curled around his warm mug as he tries to come up with a solution. Any solution, really. And then it hits him. 

“Wait, I have an idea,” he says, and she gives him an expectant look. “I have to make a phone call.”

“Good plan,” Annette says. Then she frowns in confusion. “What’s a phone?”

#

_“Really Sylvain, it’s taken you his long to call me?”_

Sylvain winces, not because Mercedes is angry, but because her disappointed voice sears down to the soul. “Merce,” he says, “I’m sorry. I just-- look, I know that Felix has talked to all of you, and I thought that maintaining a safe distance was the best option. I’d prefer that he not shank you for association.”

Anette’s eyebrows shoot straight into her hairline at that, but Sylvain holds out a finger to stop her from saying anything. Sylvain’s got Mercedes on speakerphone, and he’s about to attempt his most ridiculous plan yet-- 

Crashing their next event. 

_“Felix would never hurt me,”_ Mercedes says, clearly amused by the thought. 

“We don’t know that,” Sylvain says. “We don’t know anything, the man’s positively feral at times--”

_“Sylvain--”_

“Okay, okay.” He pauses. “Look, something’s come up and I need everyone’s help. It’s kind of a job, but it’s… um, well technically it doesn’t pay, but think of it as charity and--”

_“Sylvain, does this have to do with your week-long bender a few months back?”_

“Ah, so he told you about that.”

_“Well, he didn’t tell me any details--”_

“He refused to listen to them, like the little shit that he can be--”

“Um, ma’am?” Annette cuts in. 

They both pause in their little spat, and then Mercedes speaks. _“Sylvain, am I on speakerphone?”_

Sylvain groans and Annette snickers slightly at the accusatory tone. “My name is Annette Fantine Dominic,” she finally says. “I’m the… organizer of this event that he’s talking about, and we would love to have the entire cast come and be apart of it. It’s not close, but we’ll compensate you for travel.” She winces at her lie, but Sylvain’s impressed with her improv, shooting her a thumb’s up. 

Mercedes is quiet on the other side, and then, _“I wouldn't say no, as long as it’s within my schedule. I can’t speak for the others.”_

“Sylvain has made me aware, the um, _tension_ there is currently between the cast.”

 _“Tension is a mild way of putting, I think,”_ Mercedes replies. 

“Look, Merce,” Sylvain says, taking over the conversation again. “I know that it’s a fucking longshot, but we’re desperate here.”

 _“We’re,”_ Mercedes repeats, _“Not I’m.”_ She muses for a moment before she speaks again. _“Okay look, there’s an event in a few days at the Tellius library. It’s a small little thing, so if you corner them, you might have a chance to at least get a word in. I’ll actually be there, but I’m not going to make them-- that’s on you.”_

“Yeah, I get it Merce,” Sylvain says. “Honestly, that’s more than I expected.”

 _“Sylvain, I love you dearly,”_ Mercedes says, right as they’re about to hang up. _“Don’t mess this one up, alright?”_

“I’ll do my best.”

#

The first thing that Ingrid does when she sees Sylvain, is march over and slug him straight across the face. She doesn’t hold back, and _shit_ she’s strong, and Sylvain will always kind of hate Glenn for teaching her how to throw a real punch that actually packs a bite, god rest his dearly departed soul. Pain sears through his face as he gingerly cradles his jaw. Annette watches from her spot tucked against the library wall, mouth agape at the blatant display. In front of event guests, no less.

“Okay, yeah, I deserved that,” he says, wiggling his jaw around, making sure that everything still works alright. 

Ingrid’s lip then wobbles, and Sylvain sighs because he knows what’s coming next. She throws herself around him, pulling him into a tight hug. “God, I fucking hate you,” she snaps next to his ear. 

“I know, Ingrid.”

“I literally want to murder you right now, but I can’t, not in front of everyone else.”

“I know, Ingrid.”

“A week? Sylvain, a week. We thought that you had died, we thought that you’d-- look, I really, _really_ want to kick your ass right now.” She hesitates then, and says, “God, I’m relieved that you’re safe.”

Sylvain’s smoothing small circles against her back, the linen of her costume scratching the palm of his hand. “Yeah, I know Ingrid. I love you too.”

She pulls away, holding him an arm’s length apart, lips tugged into a frown. “What’s wrong with you?” she asks. “You’re clingy right now, and it seems suspiciously genuine.”

“Look, I don’t want to pull you away from this glamorous event, but I really need to talk to everyone. I’ll explain everything.” Ingrid levels him with an unbelieving look. “Everything, I mean it.”

“Only if you sit and sign prints,” she says. “I know you aren’t in costume, but I don’t give a fuck. If we’ve got to slave away at this dinky event--” Soren, the librarian, takes _great_ offense to her comment, “then you will as well.”

Sylvain lets out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, okay. I can do that.” 

Ingrid grunts in reply, but accepts his answer. Once she steps away, he shoots a sheepish grin to Annette, who looks at Ingrid with shock, confusion, and a little bit of fear. Yeah, Sylvain gets it. He’s fucking terrified of her too.

#

Ingrid looks tired. 

Ashe smiles at him, Mercedes mirroring the motion from her spot next to him, arm slung through his. 

Felix doesn’t just look like he’d rather be anywhere else, he looks like he wants to be jettisoned clear off of the planet. 

“So a few months ago, I went on a little bit of an adventure,” Sylvain says. “And look, I know that this story is going to sound crazy and ridiculous, but I swear that it’s real and that it actually happened. I even have a witness to it all. Actually, not even a witness, she’s a primary source.”

Now, Ingrid looks at him shrewdly through narrowed eyes. 

Ashe looks mildly interested and Mercedes’s gaze slowly flickers over to Annette, who stands behind him at a respectful distance. She’s wearing some of his clothes, so there’s a one-hundred percent chance that they already have the wrong idea. 

Felix shakes his foot with nervous energy, like a cat that’s about to bolt, and he refuses to meet Sylvain’s gaze. 

This isn’t going to work, there’s no way it’s going to work, but Sylvain’s going to try because he’s tired of quitting the moment that shit gets difficult. 

“So, those three larpers from the convention? They weren’t larpers at all. They were from an alternate universe, and they came here by accident. After watching the show and misunderstanding the context, they thought that we were heroes, so they came to hire us to save their people. 

“I took Felix’s advice; I decided to make something of myself, so I went to help. I was gone for a week, because I was on a literal battlefield, trying to end the life of a tyrannical Emperor.”

Ingrid’s mouth hangs open like she’s unsure what she just heard.

Ashe is smiling like he thinks the story is funny, and Mercedes is a doctor, so she takes everything with a grain of salt. 

Felix is the one who says something. “I thought drugs were the thing of the past, Sylvain? Did you ditch the alcohol to go back to tripping?”

Sylvain’s immediately angered by the accusation because it’s not as though he’d spent years floating through a drug-induced haze. “It was Molly,” he says, agitated, “and it was like _once--”_

“Sylvain,” Annette says, stepping forward and pressing a hand against his arm. 

“Fantastic,” Felix barks, “his woman of the week has to step in now, and--”

“Annette is _not--”_

“She’s wearing your clothes, Sylvain. Your clothes! You could be a little more subtle--”

“I fucking swear, Felix, if you say anything else about Annette--”

“You’ll what? Hurt me? Sylvain, there’s literally nothing that you can do, that’ll hurt me more than--”

“Enough!” Annette says, exasperated. “Goddess above, Sylvain warned me, but you lot really are a disaster, aren’t you?” They all fall silent and she rubs at her forehead. Sylvain scratches at his head sheepishly. 

“As I said, she’s my proof. She’s wearing my clothes because hers are in the wash.”

Annette speaks up. “I know it sounds insane,” she starts with, “but I swear to you, it’s true. I come from a land called Fodlan, and we’ve been entrenched in a war for a solid decade. I understand that we misunderstood what your show was, but the stories of your heroism… they are real to us. You are heroes to our people.” 

“This has to be a joke,” Ingrid says. 

“It’s not,” Sylvain says. “Look, we thought that we took down Edelgard--”

“Edelgard?” Ashe cuts in, far more interested than anyone else in the room. 

“The Emperor,” Sylvain explains, “but she’s more slippery than we thought. She launched another attack and it decimated Dimitri’s forces--”

“Dimitri?” Ashes asks.

“Right, sorry, he’s the king of Faerghus. He’s a little kooky, but I don’t think that he’s a bad guy--”

 _“Sylvain,”_ Annette admonishes. 

“Back on topic, Annette’s come back to request that all of us go to Fearghus and rally their troops once more. Lead their forces, instill moral so they can win this war, once and for all.”

“But, I mean, we’re actors,” Ashe says. 

Annette bites her lip and then says, “Well, _I_ understand that, but everyone else thinks that you're actual heroes.”

“Sylvain, you’ve come up with a lot of ridiculous stories, but this one is on an entirely different level--”

“My fingers!” Sylvain suddenly blurts, and everyone looks at him like he’s fucking nuts. “I burned my finger while I was there. Merce, how long does a direct burn take to heal?” 

Mercedes blinks at the random question. “Several weeks, depending on the level of severity.”

“Ha!” Ingrid’s face is scrunched up, Ashe looks amused and Felix looks like he’s going to kick Sylvain off of the planet, right now. “No, no, look! Annette healed it with magic.” 

Mercedes is the brave one to take a look, turning his hand over as she inspects it. “Well, there’s definitely a scar that I’ve never seen before--”

“See?”

“He’s gone insane,” Felix says, standing up from his chair. 

“Felix--” 

“Look, agreed to this meeting because Ingrid promised me a really expensive steak dinner at Von Reigan’s, but I _did not_ agree to this absolute farce.” 

“Oh, dear,” Annette murmurs, as he stalks away. “ _That’s_ the man you're in love with? You really know how to pick them.” Everyone’s eyes fall on her, and Annette shrugs.

Sylvain groans pathetically, running a hand down his face. “Look, I get that you don’t believe me. And that’s really frustrating, because I finally have a fucking epiphany and decide to stop being a useless dick, and you refuse to believe me.”

“Sylvain, honey,” Mercedes says, “Have you listened to your story? Like, actually listened to it?”

“What if I send you the coordinates?” Sylvain asks Ingrid. “It doesn’t matter what you guys decide to do, I’m going back to help, regardless. I’ll give you the location of the gate and you can meet me there, and you can see that I’m not losing my damn mind.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes but hands him her phone. Sylvain pulls up the info from his last rideshare and then copies it over. She looks when she gets her phone back, brows already knitted into annoyance. “Sylvain, this is in the middle of the badlands--”

“Trust me, I know. It’s an absolute pain to get out there. Oh, and there’s no reception, so be prepared for that.”

“What--”

“Tonight,” Sylvain says. “At seven. Annette, should they pack clothes?”

Annette perks up at her name. “I think we can manage to find them some things. Anna’s the best at what she does.”

 _“Sylvain--”_ Ingrid hisses, not enjoying being talked over. 

“Seven,” Sylvain repeats. “At those coordinates. Please, Ingrid, just this once-- trust me.” There’s a pause, and then he adds as an afterthought, “And wear comfortable shoes.”

#

Sylvain’s not the kind of man who gets nervous, so he hates standing there, all jittery like a teenage boy who’s about to touch his first boob. Hell, he’s more nervous than he’d been on the field, staring down Edelgard, while she and Dimitri slung insults back and forth, each trying to piss the other off first. 

“They’re late,” he says, checking his watch for the hundredth time. 

“I bet they’ll come,” Annette says coolly. 

“I bet they don’t,” Sylvain says. “I bet they don’t, and that tomorrow morning Mercedes makes a house call with a therapist friend of hers.”

“Would she do that?” Annette asks. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Sylvain answers. 

There’s another stretch of silence, and then Annette says, “They’re going to come, _and_ Felix will be there.” Annette remembers his name easily because complaining about the man is all that Sylvain’s done in the several days that she’s stayed with him. 

“Okay, I change my bet, _they_ will come, but Felix is on a plane halfway across the world, heading a different direction.”

“You’re wrong,” she insists. A pause, and then, “What’s a plane?”

Ten minutes pass, and then another ten. Sylvain insists that they should just go, shouldering his camping bag with proclaimed essentials. When he turns, Annette doesn't. 

“No,” she says. “Not yet. I’ll wait a little longer.”

“Annette, there isn’t a point.”

“There is when it’s life and death.”

“I’m already coming to help--”

“I meant _your_ life.”

Sylvain grunts in reply, but settles back at her side. “You’re wrong. Just you wait.”

“I bet you four hundred gold, not that you know how much that is.”

Sylvain pretends to think about it. “I have no gold,” he says with a sly smile.

“Four days of stable duty, then. Your massive, manly muscles are way more suited for tossing hay, than my little noodles.” She holds out a thin arm as an example. 

Sylvain actually thinks about it this time. “Alright, done.”

The moment he says the word, there’s the soft crumble of stone and dirt under car tires. Sylvain immediately swears and Annette cracks a knowing smile. Ingrid’s driving her ancient minivan, parking at an odd angle because she clearly doesn’t plan on staying long. Everyone files out, even Ignatz, the set-designer that sometimes chills with them on the weekends.

Even Felix. 

Sylvain looks to Annette and mouths a subtle, _How?_

She smirks at him and says quietly, “Well, he likes to stare at your ass too.”

“One last chance,” Ingrid says. She’s wearing leggings an old tank top that had belonged to Glenn, and her well-worn sneakers. “One last chance to tell us what’s really up, before I leave your ass here and never talk to you again.”

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says, “You wound me.”

“Sylvain,” she warns.

Sylvain puts his hands up, trying to placate her. “Look, everything I said was true.”

Felix scoffs. “I told you, what an absolute waste of time.”

Sylvain turns on his heel to walk away from them, Annette following close behind.

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says. “Wait-- Oooh, you aggravate me!” But there’s the crunch of the hard-packed dirty under their feet, as the rest of the cast picks their way after them. 

The Dragon’s Gate is lit up and waiting for them, and the moment Ingrid turns the corner, she stops dead. Sylvain smiles a shit-eating grin, as he gestures grandly to the artifact. Annette’s already gone to stand beside it, waiting patiently.

“Sylvain, what the absolute _hell_ is that?”

“The Dragon’s Gate, keep up with me, will you?”

“That’s--”

“Really good practical effects,” Ashe says, popping a chip into his mouth. Always with his snacking. “Who’d you hire? Crimean Light and Magic?”

“No,” Ignatz says, “the color is too clean for something practical. Projector maybe? But if that's it, where’s the power source?”

“Who’d I hire-- Ashe, I didn’t hire anyone, this is real!”

Ashe pauses mid-bite and then says, “Oh. Should have brought my camera then, cause this would be great for my channel.”

Sylvain loses his patience and takes a step towards the gate. “Last chance, guys,” he says. “But I think that you really should come with me. These people need our help.”

“Sylvain, that’s enough,” Ingrid says. 

He pauses right before the gate, pack slung over his shoulder. “Guys, come on. It'll be one hell of an adventure.”

None of them budge an inch, and Sylvain sighs. “Well, I tried.” He takes a step into the gate and the magic swallows him right up, winking him entirely out of existence.

Annette sighs, looking back at the four of them. “Truly, I hope to see you on the other side.” And then she follows him in. 

Ingrid stares, absolutely flabbergasted. 

Mercedes, for once, looks entirely ruffled because she’s a woman of science, and this defies all of that. 

Ashe is still munching on his chips, and says, “Woah, that’s neat.”

Ignatz looks a little terrified, and a little bit like he’s trying to suss out the perfect angle to paint the damn thing.

And then there’s Felix. Angry, pissed off Felix, as he stares at the gate like it’s a newfound enemy. He’s the first to step closer, pacing back and forth alongside it. “Fuck,” he says, “Seriously, _fuck_ that man because he’s going to get himself killed.”

Then, Felix steps through the gate after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> END OF PART ONE


	7. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To say that the war meeting the next day is an utter disaster would be putting it lightly. Sylvain’s seen his troupe in varying degrees of shock and anger over the years, but this one might actually take the cake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it's been a while. Things have been crazy on my end and my health hasn't been good, but I'm doing better now. Please enjoy!

**PART TWO**

**_Chapter Six_ **

Felix feels like he’s being tugged forwards, backwards, and inside-out. Stumbling over and over through a void, and then the next thing he knows, he’s sprawled across a stone-cold floor with his stomach in his throat, about to vomit.

“Shit,” Felix murmurs, his gut heaving. _“Shit.”_

And then, Felix remembers Sylvain disappearing into a magical Dragon’s Gate and how he’d been dumb enough to throw himself in right after. How fucking predictable, Felix thinks. Ingrid is never going to let him forget this. 

“Felix?” 

Felix stills at Sylvain’s voice, following the sound of it. He stands twenty feet away, his bag still thrown over his shoulder. The short redhead is by his side, arms crossed over her chest and looking none surprised. In fact, she looks as though she’s won a bet, a soft little quirk to her mouth as she trades a knowing glance with Sylvain. The one that Sylvain shoots back looks mildly annoyed.

Felix hates the momentary relief that floods through his chest at the sight of Sylvain, safe for the time being, but the moment it comes, it’s gone. 

Sylvain’s an idiot and Felix doesn’t believe a damn word that he says, hasn’t for years. Especially when it comes to women wearing his clothes. And really, it’s not Annette’s fault, his ire for her mere existence. Felix blames that on Sylvain too. Sylvain’s like a bad itch in that impossible to reach spot between your shoulder blades; you can’t ever scratch it, and as the years on, you just get used to it until it’s a dull throb.

He and Sylvain are quiet for a touch too long, Annette looking between the two of them with a badly concealed smirk. It truly solidifies that he isn’t going to like this woman. 

“Felix,” Sylvain says again, finally taking a step towards him.

“Don’t start.” Felix pulls himself up on shaking legs but manages to keep himself from toppling right over. “As if I’d let you come here alone. You’re an idiot, Sylvain. Idiots always wind up dead.” 

“I didn’t wind up dead the last time.”

Felix narrows his eyes. “Last time? Sylvain--” Annette snorts and Felix shifts his gaze to her. She stares right back, eyebrows raised, posing a threat. Yeah, he definitely doesn’t like this woman. She’s outright challenging him which puts her automatically into the _mortal enemy_ category. 

“Look--” Felix starts, but he’s cut off. The Dragon’s Gate lights up with a dramatic flash and a hum, and then it spits out Ingrid. 

“Ingrid,” Sylvain says quietly, mouth parted in wonder. “I--”

“Oh, shut up,” Ingrid snaps, standing with more grace than Felix. She’s used to being thrown around and righting herself quickly, and Felix is a little bit jealous that she makes it look so effortless. Just a little bit. “I’m not here for you, I’m here for this idiot.” She jerks her head to Felix, who’s brushing off his pants.

“I’m not the idiot here.”

“You launched yourself through that gate without even thinking--”

“I _was_ thinking!” Felix says harshly, narrowing his eyes at her. “Sylvain’s going to get himself killed and for what?”

Ingrid lets out an angry grunt, throwing her arms into the air. “It’s always about him, isn’t it? No matter that we’d made a pact to finally say no, the moment that he comes pleading for help, you just have to answer the call.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that--”

“Oh, shove it,” Ingrid says. “It doesn’t matter how big your words are, Felix. When it comes to Sylvain you’ll always go crawling back to him like a wounded little puppy. I should have known better, I should have expected this.”

Before Felix can yell at her anymore, the gate opens up again, spitting out Ashe, Mercedes, and Ignatz one by one. Ignatz and Mercedes tumble across the floor with absolutely no grace, and Ashe barely staggers before standing upright and shooting Sylvain an easy smile. 

“Would you look at that?” Ashe says. “Time for an adventure, I guess.”

“I’ve made a mistake,” Felix suddenly says. “I’m already regretting this--”

“Oh, _now_ you regret it,” Ingrid snaps at him. “It’s too late--”

“You know, Sylvain warned me about what a sorry lot you all were but I must say, you’ve exceeded my expectations.” Everyone in the room turns to look at Annette who stands there with a frown on her face, arms crossed over her chest. Entirely unimpressed. 

“It’s easy to say ‘Oh, I’ve made a mistake’ or ‘I really should just go back’, but it’s not about you anymore. The moment that you stepped through that gate, it became about my people instead.” Annette lets out a long and tired sigh, pressing a hand against her brow. “I can’t believe that our future is in your hands. You can’t even talk to each other, how can you possibly help us?”

“Annette,” Sylvain starts, but she shoots him a look and he snaps his mouth shut quickly. Felix’s gaze narrows at that; he’s the only one who’s ever been able to shove off Sylvain with such ease. 

“You don’t have to stay,” Annette says to everyone. She points to the Dragon’s Gate, which is still active and glowing a faint purple. “It isn’t too late to turn back. My people are at war. We’ve lost tens of thousands. This is our last stronghold and we have nothing left, so we’re risking it all, and if you stay to help, you will be too. If you’re going to spend the entire time squabbling and complaining about how stupid Sylvain is, then I don’t want you here. This isn’t a television show, this is real.”

They’re all quiet, not really sure how to respond. Annette gives them an appraising look and waits. Not one of them treks back to the gate, not even Felix. And really, Felix doesn’t know why; he’s a selfish bastard and he doesn’t help people. 

But, Felix has always helped Sylvain, even when it’s against his better judgment. Ingrid’s frustratingly right in her observation that _he just can’t help it._ There’s something different this time, Felix thinks, just the slightest bit. He looks at Sylvain who stands next to Annette, fidgeting. Sylvain’s the most self-centered man that Felix knows; it’s weird to see him so readily willing to help. 

So why? And for what reason? What is Sylvain getting out of this? He isn’t the kind of person that does things for the sake of doing things. There’s always an ulterior motive because Sylvain is still a selfish bastard on even his worst of days.

“I will warn you,” Annette says, “The stories from _Fire Emblem_ are well-known to our people and they view you as heroes, which is why we reached out to Sylvain in the first place. And, while I know that you’re actors, no one else does. Sylvain and I have kept this intentionally quiet.”

“So, let me get this straight,” Felix says, eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You came across our television show--”

“We were trying to summon a dragon, but the gate opened a portal to your world instead.”

“And you thought that we were heroes?”

Annette frowns at the absurdity in his tone. “It’s not as though we don’t have plays, but watching them on a screen? The special effects and costumery? Everything looked real.” 

Felix grunts at that; he can’t really fault their misunderstanding, as wild as the entire thing sounds. 

“So, you thought that we could help,” Ingrid says. 

“Trust me, I’m aware of how dumb the idea sounds now,” Annette says. “Take it as an example of how desperate we’ve become.”

Felix lets out a long sigh, resigning himself to whatever lunacy this adventure is bound to be. “I’m in,” he finally says, dragging a hand tiredly down his face. Only to keep Sylvain alive, he tells himself. Definitely not to figure out exactly the relationship that Sylvain has with this woman. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Sylvain’s face lights up and Felix ignores the way that it tugs at his heart. He’s supposed to be over these dumb, fleeting feelings. Sylvain made clear where he stood on those, years ago. Felix hates that he’s the one who still hangs on.

Ingrid ruins the moment when she lets out a snort, and says to Sylvain, “I’m only here to make sure that Felix doesn’t get himself killed by being equally as dumb as you.” 

Annette cracks a tiny little smile at that.

#

Even though Annette prepared him, Sylvain isn’t ready for the devastation of Garreg Mach. If he hadn’t seen the Monastery in its prime only months prior, he would think it a long time ruin. Walls that were once solid are now tumbled to the ground. There’s rubble everywhere, with columns overturned and entire buildings leveled. 

Annette leads them through the wreckage with weary steps. He knows that she wants to rest but it’s better to head straight for Dimitri and get the hard part over with. 

As they walk, Sylvain’s gaze slides to rest on Felix. He’d been the first to tumble through the gate with harsh words and an angry demeanor. Blaming the entire thing on Sylvain, like he always does. It’s on-brand for Felix. 

Sylvain’s ready for Felix to turn tail and leave at any moment, to decide that he’s not worth trying to keep safe. Because that’s also on-brand.

The rest of them look at the Monastery in wonder as they walk through the quiet halls. There are no servants and so few guards. The entire place feels like a crumbling ghost town. Sylvain bites his lip because he feels responsible. 

“None of that,” Annette says to him. She doesn’t stop, keeping up her brisk pace, but she does shoot him a glance. 

“None of what, Annette?” 

“Blaming yourself.” Sylvain frowns and she sighs. “Sylvain, I know that we’re new friends, but I’m good at reading people. And, while you’re good at hiding your feelings, you’re too distracted to do it well right now.”

“Distracted,” Sylvain repeats, deflecting the accusation. 

Annette’s eyes flicker to Felix, who stares right back at her, eyes narrowed as he boldly listens in. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Sylvain sighs, waving Felix off. “Don’t worry about him.” Felix huffs in response but doesn’t say anything. 

“I’m not, really,” Annette says. “I’m more worried about you.”

“You don’t need to be, Annette.”

“You’re right,” she agrees. “But, I will be.”

Sylvain manages a small little smile at that. “You know Annette, I don’t really deserve you.”

Annette smirks at him, the first bit of pep she’s had since they’d tumbled back through the gate. “That’s definitely true.”

They have to go the long way around to avoid crumbled walls and rooms. The group is awed by the size of Garreg Mach, but the more that Sylvain sees, the more his heart falls. He’d known that Edelgard attacked with her main forces, but the ruin she’d left in her wake has utterly crippled them. 

Eventually, they reach the War Room and Annette pauses. 

Sylvain catches her hesitation and sidles up to her. “How bad is he?” Annette nearly crumples at his question. It’s not the first time that he’s thought of Dimitri since he left Fodlan. 

“Not good,” she says quietly. “I know that you’ve caught onto his moods, but I worry what the others will think.”

Sylvain casts a glance to the rest of the group who were busy looking out the monastery windows, or into the spare rooms in the hall. Exploring the crumbling ruins that they would call home for the time being. “Do what you did with me,” he says, “Chalk it up to the stress of war.”

The look Annette gives him doesn’t bode well. She’s exhausted, dark circles patching the underside of her eyes. Her hair is limp and dingy, and she can barely stand straight. Sylvain can’t imagine the stress that she’s been under. 

“Sylvain,” she starts quietly, “whatever you do, don’t press him, alright?”

Sylvain worries his lip. “That bad, huh?”

“Worse.” It’s a dubious reply. 

Sylvain rakes a hand through his hair. “Well, we’ll tackle that problem when we need to. Maybe he’ll snap back to with us here.”

“Right,” Annette says, but her tone is flat. Sylvain can tell that she doesn’t expect that one bit. 

Sylvain can’t help it when he reaches out, pulling her in for a hug. She freezes, but hugs him back, crumpling gently under his hold. “It’s okay Annette,” Sylvain says into her ear quietly. When he pulls back, he pointedly ignores the glare Felix wears openly. Sylvain also ignores the way that Ingrid rolls her eyes at the two of them. 

Annette motions for the group to come closer. “I know that everyone’s tired. This shouldn’t take long. I wanted to introduce you to his Royal Highness and then we’ll head off for the night, alright?” 

She then bites her lip and wrings her fingers. Sylvain watches Felix cock his head to the side as he regards Annette, eyes narrowing slightly. Sylvain winces. Not good. 

“It’s better to let me do the talking, I think.” Then, she smacks her fist against her other hand. “Oh right! The Archbishop is in there as well.”

Sylvain pauses at that. “Archbishop? Oh wait--”

“She wasn’t here the last time that you were,” Annette says. Then, she pauses, her mouth falling open as she tries to carefully word what she says next. “She, um, returned to the monastery right after Edelgard attacked, and she’s not happy--”

“That Edelgard attacked?”

“No, that’s not it.” Sylvain waits for her to continue. Annette closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and says in one go: “The Archbishop has about as much power as the king does, and usually, Dimitri defers any decisions to Byleth for approval.”

Oh. _Oh, shit._ “We definitely didn’t do that when we--”

“You would be correct, Sylvain.” Annette bites her lip again. “In fact, she wasn’t very pleased about asking for your help to begin with.”

Sylvain stares at her. Ingrid looks like she swallowed something sour. Ashe and Mercedes exchange a look, and Ignatz blinks in confusion. 

And then, Felix laughs. He throws back his head and he laughs, arms crossed over his chest and looking more relaxed than Sylvain’s seen him in years. But, they all know one thing: A laughing Felix is never a good Felix. 

“Are you telling me,” Felix finally says, “that you weren’t supposed to ask us for help?”

“More like… conveniently waited until she took an indefinitely long trip and couldn’t tell us an official no.”

“That’s hilarious,” Felix says. 

“It’s really not,” Sylvain says. 

“Look,” Annette says, trying to calm the situation, “Byleth isn’t that bad, she’s just very frank. I wanted to warn you just in case she’s a little too blunt.”

“I like blunt,” Felix says. 

“Of course you do,” Ingrid says. “You like anyone who speaks their mind because then you feel less like an ass when you do it.”

“More people should be honest.”

Ingrid’s eyebrows raise to her hairline. “Oh, is that what you call it? Honesty? Felix, there are so many things that you lie through your teeth about--”

“Not now, Ingrid,” Sylvain says with a hiss. 

“Oh, like you’re one to talk,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

Annette coughs loud and conspicuously, and the group falls silent once more. “Again, I’d like to remind everyone that you’re viewed as heroes, and it would behoove everyone to act like--”

Ingrid snorts. _“Behoove.”_

Annette glares at her. “I’m serious. A united front is needed, otherwise, none of this will work.”

“Question.” Everyone turns to look at Ignatz, who’s raised his hand almost like he’s a student. He laughs nervously, pushing up his glasses. “You said earlier that everyone knows of our… stories. What difference do we actually make?” 

Annette’s gaze softens ever so slightly. “Morale. The stories painted in _Fire Emblem_ aren’t so different from our own, and you always came out on top. They think that you can do the same for us.”

“But we can’t,” Ignatz says. 

“Which is why we’re going to be doing what we do best,” Sylvain says. 

“And, pray tell, what is that?” Felix asks. 

Sylvain can’t help the wink that he shoots his way. “Acting, of course.”

Felix shoots him a very rude gesture in response. 

#

At first glance, Dimitri looks largely the same.

His usual black armor and oversized cape are thrown around his shoulders. Long, blonde hair that ghosts his collarbone. Eyepatch, carefully tied around his face, giving him a fierce disposition. But the longer that you look, the more you see. 

Dimitri’s armor is dented and dulled, hasn’t been polished in weeks. His hair is oily and stringy, half pulled back to keep it out of the way. And then, there is his face, his blank stare and dull eye, staring off into the distance as he thinks. 

Sylvain knows how to spot a man on a hair-trigger because he’s been that man, jittery and mildly unhinged, thinking through all the options and ultimately picking the wrong one. Annette wasn’t wrong and Sylvain knows that they need to proceed with caution. 

“Dimitri,” says Annette. Dimitri doesn’t turn to look at them, eyes scanning the map before him over and over. Dedue sits at the table with a careful eye on him, gaze flickering to Annette’s briefly. Then, he nods softly. “Dimitri,” she repeats, stepping closer. “I’ve brought guests.”

Dimitri seems to finally have heard her, head tilting to the side. Then he lifts his gaze and turns properly, looking over the entire group. He looks just as tired as Annette, weariness evident in the way that he holds himself. His dead gaze seems to pause on Sylvain, but there’s little recognition there.

Sylvain’s unnerved, mouth parting slightly as he tries to figure out what he should say. 

But, Dimitri’s mood suddenly changes, recognition flaring within him. “Eliwood,” he says quietly. Then, with a little more conviction, “My lord! Eliwood!” A smile spreads across his face, and while it’s a little stilted and tired, it seems genuine.

Dedue lets out a relieved sigh and Annette’s entire body slackens slightly, pleased that whatever she sees in their king. 

“Dimitri,” Sylvain says, stepping forward and holding his hand out. They clasp arms, Dimitri’s grip tight enough to knock his breath loose. When they pull away, Sylvain massages at the impending bruise. 

Then, Dimitri’s gaze moves past him. “And-- Well, it seems as though my instincts weren’t incorrect, then.”

“Instincts, your Majesty?”

 _“Dimitri,”_ he corrects. “I’ve told you that I won’t settle for anything more.”

Sylvain was somewhat used to it when he’d left Garreg Mach the last time, but he’s out of practice. It’s still a strange feeling, calling a monarch by their first name even if it’s requested. Even if everyone else does as well.

“I knew that you’d come back,” Dimitri says. “Annette was holding out as well, but--”

“I told him that it was highly unlikely.” A voice from the war room table. Everyone turns to find a woman standing from her chair, slight in her stature with an ample bosom, the kind that Sylvain likes to pretend he can get lost in. Her hair is the color of seafoam, waving ever-so-slightly around her face and her eyes seem just a little too knowing. 

Something about her makes Sylvain’s skin crawl, and not in a sexy, loins on fire kind-of-way. 

“Byleth Eisner,” she greets when she stands before Sylvain properly. “Archbishop of the Church of Seiros.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Sylvain says, turning on the charm with a smile. He holds his hand out for a proper greeting and she looks at it blankly. Then, back to his face, her expression stern. She doesn’t shake his hand, leaving him there, hanging awkwardly. “Right, then,” he says, dropping his arm. 

Felix snorts, hiding a smile behind the palm of his hand. 

“When it comes to _heroes--”_ She says the word like she doesn’t quite believe that’s what they are, “I’ve come to learn that rarely are they for the good of the people. Men like yourself are all the same; they swoop in, flash their swords and take the credit. Then, they’re gone, leaving those that they’ve saved to pick of the pieces left behind in their wake.”

“Um--”

“I must say, I’m quite surprised that you’re here. Dimitri seemed certain that you would show up again, but why would you? You’d already enacted your ill-thought plan.”

“Normally, you would be right,” Sylvain says honestly. He catches the Archbishop off guard, he can tell by the way that her expression cracks just slightly. “I thought that the plan was good and sound, and when I left, I left Faerghus in victory.”

“Victory,” Byleth says with a sigh. “Well, relish that victory as you take a look around. Let it sink in, what you’ve truly done for us all.”

None of them needs a reminder about the state of Garreg Mach, and Sylvain’s head drops slightly at that. 

“Byleth--” Annette starts.

“I warned you,” Byleth cuts in, “When you thought up this ridiculous plan. Heroes are never what they claim to be. The only reliable sword is one that’s paid for.”

That makes Sylvain bristle. He stands straighter, stepping closer, looming over her. “This might come as a shock to you, but I actually care.”

“And why on earth would you? You don’t know us.”

Sylvain pauses at that, words faltering again. Byleth is quick and clever, and nearly impossible to charm away with pleasantries. Of all the people here, she’s going to be his biggest obstacle, he knows. 

“I’m a Lord,” he says, “it’s in my blood to care for people.”

Byleth’s brow raises at that. “A lord,” she says, drawing out the word. “I’m not like Dimitri or most of the people here. I’m not of noble blood or preferential background. I rose up from the mud with the rest of the sellswords who live underneath the heel of nobility. And yes, the people _here_ are good and kind, and they care but pardon me if I don’t immediately take your word for what it is. Think of the war that we’re fighting and the reasons behind it.”

Right, Sylvain thinks. Their entire war is a territorial struggle disguised as a genuine care for the people of Faerghus. He thinks back to when he met Edelgard on the field with Dimitri and her utter lack of care for the men that surrounded her. The people that she’d willingly sacrificed for what she called ‘the greater good’.

“I vouch for him,” Annette says. She reaches out, fingers curling into Sylvain’s sleeve. “He’s come back against your expectations.”

“Because you went and got him,” Byleth says. Annette huffs at that but doesn’t refute it either. And yes, Sylvain had often thought about her and Dimitri, and their fate after he’d gone. But, he also hadn’t considered going back, it didn’t even cross his mind until Annette showed up at his doorstep once again.

Byleth shifts to look behind him, her unimpressed gaze sweeping across the rest of the group. 

“The rest of you seem honest at least. I can tell that you don’t want to be here.”

Annette’s grip tightens on Sylvain’s sleeve as she shoots Dimitri a worried glance. But, Dimitri seems to be off in his own little world again, gazing at the map and running numbers in his head. Mouthing words that no one else can hear or even fathom. 

Sylvain packs that away to think about for another time. 

To everyone’s surprise, it’s Ingrid who responds. “Eliwood,” she says, having taken the cue that they’re obviously playing a part here, “isn’t the smartest man alive, but he cares when it benefits him. We’ve been put through worse at his behest.”

Sylvain winces but silently thanks her for the minor support no matter how backhanded it is. 

Byleth thinks about this, thumbing at her lip. Then she turns to Felix. “And you?”

Felix seems surprised to have been directly addressed but no one else is. He’s been quiet the entire time and radiating the kind of vibes that show he’d rather be anywhere else. “He’s-- Look, he’s an idiot. Dumb enough to take chances and get himself killed. We never agree on anything but I did make him a promise once, a long time ago. I’m here to make sure that I keep it.”

Sylvain feels like the air’s been punched out of his gut because that promise, _their_ promise, is one of those ‘shall never be mentioned again’ moments. He’s lived by it silently for a decade, it’s always in the forefront of his mind because, despite everything, that’s how much he cares about Felix. 

It’s a shock to learn that Felix, apparently, thinks about it too. 

Ingrid stares at them in shock, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide. Then her face twists into anger, and Sylvain can just feel the tongue-lashing that they’re about to get. 

“Karel comes off harsh,” Mercedes says, blessedly beating her to the punch. She shoots Ingrid a look, and then one to Sylvain. _Later,_ he already knows. “You are right, we don’t know your people, but we do know Eliwood. He doesn’t usually take things like this lightly. And, as a healer, I too have vowed to help others whenever I can.”

“From my understanding, it was only Lord Eliwood who came the last time,” Byleth says. “And I believe the reasoning for that was _other saving-the-world_ kinds of things.”

Sylvain winces because he can feel the glare that Ingrid’s giving him, but it’s Annette that answers smoothly. 

“Our heroes are sought after by many,” she says, “it’s only natural that they can’t always work together. Sometimes, their attention is split. We’re quite lucky to have them all here at once-- when I first spoke with Eliwood, he made it clear that it wasn’t likely.”

“And for that, you all have my thanks.” It’s Dimitri from where he stands at the war room table. He’s not looking at them, his eyes still trained on the table, but he seems aware again. Byleth frowns slightly and Sylvain wonders at that moment, just exactly who is the one really in charge here. 

Eventually, Byleth lets out a long sigh. “No doubt it’s been a tiring day for our _heroes_ , then,” she says, still uttering the word like it’s poison in her mouth. Sylvain has a distinct impression that Byleth doesn’t trust easily. They’ll have to work hard to budge her, even an inch. 

“Yes,” Annette says, smiling widely, relieved for the moment. “I think that we should get everyone to bed, yes? We’ll have a proper meeting tomorrow.”

“Annette--” Sylvain starts. 

_“Tomorrow,”_ Annette cuts in, shooting in a warning look.

Sylvain’s mouth snaps shut and he chances a look at everyone else who are in varying degrees of tiredness or confusion. “Right, then,” he says. “Rest. On the morrow.”

Felix cringes at that. “On the morrow? Sylvain, what on earth--” He’s interrupted by a burst of laughter from Ingrid.

Byleth looks exhausted by them, eyes shut tight as she massages her forehead. That’s a look that Sylvain knows, the kind that Mercedes gets on the rare occasion that everyone other than her is acting like an idiot. She’s always been the most mature of them even before she ever became a doctor. 

“Tomorrow then,” Byleth says. “Mid-afternoon. Annette will brief you in the morning. It won’t be an easy meeting and I expect every one of you to be there. There is a lot to discuss.”

“Of course,” Sylvain says. Then he looks to Dimitri, who’s still hovered over the map. He bites his lip, thinking, then asks, “And the King?”

Finally, Byleth opens her eyes and looks at them, and he realizes that she’s far more tired than anyone else. Sylvain doesn’t really know what being an archbishop actually entails, but it’s been clear from the moment she opened her mouth that she’s the bulk of the decision-making around here. 

It’s only been confirmed by everyone’s hesitation around her and ultimate deference to her decisions. 

“He will be here as well,” Byleth says. She levels Sylvain with a knowing look after he shoots Dimitri another worried glance. It’s not just what he’s seeing then, it’s also about what he’s seen before-- particularly on the battlefield with Edelgard. “No matter his state,” Byleth finishes, her voice a little bit quieter. 

She doesn’t trust Sylvain but she’s attentive enough to realize that he’s really not as dumb as people make him out to be. 

Still, their little exchange doesn’t boast much confidence. Sylvain feels a little bit of his resolve crumble when he risks a look at Felix. Felix stares back silently, brow furrowed as he ignores everything else in the room. 

#

To say that the war meeting the next day is an utter disaster would be putting it lightly. Sylvain’s seen his troupe in varying degrees of shock and anger over the years, but this one might actually take the cake. 

At first, things aren’t so terrible. They’d slept decently, were presented clothes that fit well enough, and they’d tucked into a nice breakfast despite the lack of supplies. The war room is better lit during the day with natural sunlit instead of just candles. 

Byleth seems less cranky, having come to the conclusion that their new-found heroes are a necessary evil. Annette is cheerful, all smiles and jokes, and even her hair looks freshly washed. Even Dimitri seems to be in a chipper and proper mood, lacking his overall strangeness from the night before. 

Until he isn’t. 

Annette had given them a crash course of Fodlan history over breakfast, much like she had with Sylvain. Ignatz was wide-eyed with wonder, mostly because he wasn’t really an actor and just stage crew instead. Ashe retained everything quite well, Ingrid tried her best to not laugh at inopportune times, and Felix was… 

Well, he was Felix; ever scowling, ever angry, and ever rolling his eyes. 

But, they listened and they learned, and Sylvain thought that maybe they even grew excited. It isn't often that you’re called upon to save an entire people. 

During the war meeting, things go swimmingly at first. Dimitri seems to have a plan laid out that Byleth tentatively agrees with; they will call Edelgard out for another truce-- an honest one this time. It is clear that they won’t be able to win with strength alone, and perhaps with their heroes tagging along, things will be different this time around. 

“Perhaps she’ll listen to reason,” Mercedes says, ever believing in the good of others, even if there isn’t any. 

“Doubtful--”

“I think not--”

Sylvain and Byleth both pause, exchange a look, and then the Archbishop sighs. “She isn’t the type to give in as such,” she says.

“Then what’s the point of a parlay?” Felix asks. He’s sitting in a chair, feet thrown up on the table and picking at his fingernails with a gifted knife. Sylvain has always envied the effortless way that Felix can slip into character, but he supposes that it’s easy when the character is basically yourself at the end of all things.

“An edge up,” Byleth says.

“So, a covert attack?” Ingrid asks.

Byleth hums, nodding gently. “I figured that we might have a chance if she were distracted enough. One of you could swoop in and end the entire thing.” The group falls silent and she narrows her eyes, her mouth twitching downward. “I was led to believe that your talents were good enough for at least that--”

“We’re admittedly, rusty,” Sylvain cuts in.

Byleth blinks, still not convinced. “You said that you were saving lives frequently enough that you couldn’t find time to work together. Is that _not_ the case?”

“Sometimes our heroism is less fighting and more… negotiation,” Mercedes says in that unwavering calm of hers. 

“Or you know, rescuing cats from trees,” Ashe adds cheerfully. 

“Cats,” Byleth says, “from trees.”

“Well, someone’s got to rescue them.” Everyone at the war table is silent, giving him a variety of confused looks, which causes Ashe to shrug.

“The state of Faerghus is far more complicated than rescuing cats from trees,” Byleth says, “We need more than ‘heroism is negotiation’. We have tried settling with the Emperor and look at the result.”

“From what I heard, it was less of a negotiation and more of a surprise attack--” Felix starts, but Byleth shoots him a halting look.

“This goes back further than the exploits of your dear Lord Eliwood,” Byleth cuts in tersely. “We’ve tried to reason with her for far longer than we even knew of your existence. Edelgard is a cold-hearted narcissist, and she thinks that she is the only one cut out to rule here.”

Sylvain’s the only one who doesn’t wince at Byleth’s severe tone. “I know that it seems like Byleth is over-exaggerating,” he says, “But she isn’t. I’ve met her. Edelgard is everything that she’s described as.”

“So, she’s a psychopath,” Felix surmises.

Annette’s mouth parts at that. “A psycho- _what?”_

“Let’s not get too hasty in labeling--”

“But I mean, she is,” Felix says. “Or seems like it.”

Ingrid sneers at him. “By your broad parameters, then you fit the bill--”

“I’m not a narcissist,” Felix says with a hiss. Ingrid levels him with him an unimpressed, deadpan look. He twirls the knife between his fingers and then sneers back. “Well, not much of one--”

“Guys,” Sylvain cuts in, “this isn’t the time.”

“No, it certainly isn’t,” Dimitri says. “We’re sitting here and throwing jabs at each other when we should be plotting our next move.” His tone isn’t as jovial as before, darker and more dramatic. Not good. 

“Dimitri,” Annette says, reaching out to press a hand against his arm, but he pulls back from her violently. 

“No!” he snaps and everyone in the room tenses.

Dedue is already out of his seat, half leaning over the table as he prepares to step in if necessary. Ferdinand still sits, fingers curled tightly around a stack of papers, mouth parted, but not in surprise. Annette’s hand is still held before her but she doesn’t shrink in fear; if anything, her mouth twists downward in disappointment. Before she can say anything though, Dimitri whirls around, his cape flaring out behind him.

“We cannot turn our eyes away from the lives that she has trampled,” Dimitri says, his voice a low growl. “She is a monster, the lowliest that I have ever known.”

“Your Highness,” Dedue starts softly, moving around the table. Dimitri easily sidesteps him and begins to pace back and forth. 

“To think that she’s a better fit for the throne,” Dimitri starts, “She’s nothing but an ignoble beast scavenging for scraps--”

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, reaching out to grab his elbow. Unlike Annette, he doesn’t pull away from her, instead, looking to the Archbishop’s face, eyes widened with madness. 

Sylvain swallows thickly because this can’t be good, nothing about this is going to end well. 

“Don’t you see? I’m tired of waiting, I cannot rest until her head is separated from her neck and strung up for all to see! It would be divine justice for her to grace these hallowed parapets for all she’s done, wasting away to nothing more than a feast for crows.”

Dimitri sounds serious, so utterly serious that Sylvain’s entire crew is shocked into silence. Unsure what to say or do next, or how to react. The scene is falling apart, their main star ranting homicidal wishes like a deranged madman. Except that Dimitri isn’t a madman, he’s real and this is his life, and these are his actual feelings.

Sylvain knew that Dimitri was a little off-kilter, but this is the first time that he’s truly seen what extent. He glances to Annette who’s biting her lip in worry, both at their king and at how their heroes might react. 

Ingrid is the first to do something. She turns on her heel and storms out the war room doors. Mercedes and Ashe follow her, mildly confused, with Ignatz nearly tripping after them. Sylvain nearly calls after her, but barely catches himself. Then, he looks to Felix.

Felix stands from where he lounges in his chair, twirls the knife gifted to him one last time, and then slams it into the wood of the table with a thunk. Then, he’s out the door before Sylvain can even process what’s happened.

“Don’t, Annette,” Sylvain snaps the moment that she opens her mouth. “I’ll-- look, I’ll handle this.” He doesn’t need to look at Byleth to feel the daggers boring into his neck. Sylvain thinks back to the day before, to what she said: _And why on earth would you? You don’t know us._

Sylvain stumbles over his feet as he runs into the hall, barely catching himself in his ill-fitting, borrowed boots. The best that Annette could do for the time being. 

“Ingrid,” he calls once he sees that no one but them is in the hallway. _“Ingrid--”_

“No,” she says. “Sylvain-- _no.”_

“Ingrid,” he tries again, but she stops dead in the hallway and whirls around, her face contorted with anger. 

“Did you hear him?” she asks. “Sylvain, did you hear him? Threatening to put a woman’s head on a stake?”

Sylvain takes a deep breath. “Well, to be fair, she’s really an awful person--”

“I don’t care! Sylvain, she could be a serial killer and I still would want nothing to do with this. What happens if we don’t do well? Who’s to stop him from stringing _our_ heads up?”

Sylvain swallows; a fair point, one he hasn’t considered. Still, he doesn’t think that Dimitri is likely to do that. While he’s a little bit mad and potentially not quite there, Sylvain’s pretty sure that it’s mostly about The Emperor and little about everyone else. 

While Annette is often worried about him, it’s not usually about what he might do, it’s about Dimitri himself. She worries because she cares, and Annette doesn’t care about bad people. How does he explain that to people who’ve only barely met him? Or, in Ingrid’s case, are stubbornly obtuse.

“Ingrid, these people need our help.”

“Not at the expense of my life,” she says. She rubs at her eyes, already tired despite the early hour of the day. “Sylvain, I risk my life every day at work but this isn’t the same. Stunt work is for entertainment, but this… this isn’t. This is real.”

“Exactly,” Sylvain says. 

“Sylvain,” Mercedes breaks in, calmer than Ingrid. “She’s right. I don’t think that we’re cut out for this.” 

Sylvain sighs, knowing that she’s right. “Look, I know that the odds are stacked against us, but--”

“But what?” Ingrid snaps. “We just risk our lives anyway?”

“It’s what Glenn would have done,” Sylvain says before he can stop himself. Ingrid’s face slowly contorts into something truly feral, a fit of deep-seated anger that is so rarely seen on her person. Partially because Sylvain’s mentioned he-who-shall-not-be, and partially because he’s right. 

Glenn would have thrown himself into this headfirst and happily, the exact attitude that got him killed years ago. 

Ingrid turns around without saying another word, and Mercedes mutters softly as she follows, Ignatz and Ashe close on her heels. 

“You’ve really done it now, haven’t you?” Sylvain turns to find Felix standing there, arms crossed over his chest and his mouth tipped into a frown. Sylvain winces. “You aren’t wrong, though,” Felix continues, quieter this time. “Glenn would have definitely helped. He’d try to be heroic, he’d pull out his best stunts and he’d get himself killed in the process with a sarcastic quip at the ready. It’s what he was best at, wasn’t it?”

“None of this went right.”

“Well, what did you expect? That man is an absolute boar, clearly not right in the head. You could tell with everyone tip-toeing around him the moment we stepped through that door. A war between that and a psychopath? I’m not sure who should be the victor.”

“Dimitri,” Sylvain says without hesitation. “I know that you haven’t really talked to him, but I have. And yeah, some of his days are worse than others but--”

“Are you seriously going to tell me that most of the time he’s perfectly normal?”

Sylvain lets out a frustrated grunt. “All I want is to help these people. Trust me when I say that Edelgard is far, _far_ worse, and that’s based on the little that I’ve seen.” He sighs, massaging his temple. “I’ve made a mistake, haven’t I?”

Felix lets out a long breath, but to Sylvain’s surprise, he doesn’t yell at him. Instead, he says, “Look, despite your every flaw, you don’t have a bad heart. Wanting to do right by them isn’t a bad thing either, but it means nothing if you aren’t going to use your fucking head.”

“Felix, I am using my head.”

“Are you?” Felix asks, looking at him like he’s lost his damn mind. “Sylvain, take a good look at what just happened in there, at the kinds of things the king said. This isn’t some terribly written script and badly done green screen, this is real. Why are you so desperate to be a repeat of Glenn?”

Sylvain’s never been compared to Glenn but at that moment it punches him right through his gut. “I’m not like Glenn,” Sylvain says. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He doesn’t expect Felix to get angry, and he certainly doesn’t expect Felix to step forward and into his space, or to grab him by the shirt and haul him closer. This is the closest they’ve probably been in years. “God, you’re an idiot, aren’t you? Your head is so far up your ass that you can’t see--”

“See what, Felix?” Sylvain bites out acerbically. Sylvain sees; Sylvain sees a lot, and he can definitely read whatever is on Felix’s face. But, he also knows that neither of them will talk about it because that’s a boat that sailed long ago, courtesy of Sylvain’s fucked-up priorities and willful ignorance. 

“Felix, my life is terrible. My friends fucking hate me, my fans only like the idea of me, and everything I’ve ever wanted, I’ve fucked up because that’s just what I do." And really, Felix should thank him for nipping that in the bud before they’d ever had a dumpster fire of a relationship.

“But here? These people? They have honest faith that I can actually do something for them.”

Felix pushes him away roughly. “Sylvain, they don’t know you.”

“Exactly! For once in my fucking life, I have the opportunity to turn my life around and actually do some good.”

Felix pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It’s the thing that he does before he makes a terrible decision. “I’m going to regret this,” Felix says. “I’m going to _absolutely_ regret this.”

Sylvain can’t help the smile that finds his face, even if it’s tired and only half there. When Felix looks at him and sees it, he immediately sneers. “Wipe that damned look off of your face. I’m not doing this for you.”

“I know,” Sylvain says. Even if they both know that he’s lying. Sylvain’s the only reason Felix is dumb enough to actually agree to stay behind. There’s a pause before Sylvain continues with, “Think you can talk the others into it?”

Felix sighs dramatically, tipping his face heavenward as he pinches his eyes shut. “Not if you’re there,” he finally says. 

“Wouldn’t dream of trying to help you,” Sylvain says, honestly. Felix snorts at that, then turns to head down the hall. A moment stretches as Sylvain stands there in the hallway.

“Well, that went better than I would have thought,” Annette says from behind him. “You spoke more than a few sentences to each other. He even touched you.”

“As a threat,” Sylvain says with a sigh. 

“I think that threatening you is his love language,” she says cheekily.

“Annette, now really isn’t the time--”

“Anything as a distraction,” she cuts in. “Sylvain, please. _Anything.”_

“Even my disastrous love life?”

“Can it be a disaster before it even starts?”

They both sigh. Then, Sylvain asks, “How’s it going in there?”

“Dimitri didn’t really notice that the lot of you stormed off, but Byleth sure isn’t happy. She feels quite vindicated at the moment.”

“Of course she does,” Sylvain says. “She made her views on our help very clear yesterday.”

“And she was correct about it.”

“Felix will get them to agree.”

Annette flashes him an appraising look. “Oh? You seem pretty sure about that.”

“Felix is like the sad little puppy of our group, impossible to say no to.”

She hums at that, hands clasped behind her back as she rocks slightly on her heels. It’s nice to see Annette relaxing at least a little bit after the tense meeting. And, you know, the entire meltdown at the end. 

“Who’s Glenn?”

“Man, you were listening for that long, huh?” Sylvain sighs. “Felix’s brother. Ingrid’s husband. We grew up together, did everything together. He was a stuntman.”

“What happened to him?”

Sylvain’s quiet for a long time before he figures out how to answer. “Got too cocky,” he finally says. “Paid the ultimate price.”

Annette looks to him then, her face covered in worry. She knows, she can read him like an open book. Glenn’s death feels more personal to him at that moment than it has in a decade. “Sylvain,” she says, “You aren’t like Glenn.”

“No,” Sylvain says, “I’m worse.”

Annette is quiet after that, only reaching out to grab his arm, her tiny little fingers squeezing tightly. It’s a nice comfort as they wait there to see if the others come running back. 

Eventually, they do. Mercedes and Ignatz seem weirdly calm about the entire thing, and Ashe seems excited, indicative of his goofy little grin. Ingrid stomps right up to Sylvain, face already red with anger. 

“Felix made a compelling argument,” she says, and God above, Sylvain wishes he could have been a fly on the wall to hear _that_ conversation. She doesn’t elaborate though, she only pulls her hand back and slaps him straight across the face. 

“I deserved that,” Sylvain says, not even moving to rub at his throbbing cheek.

“Yes, you did,” Ingrid agrees. Then, she looks at Annette. “All right then, what’s next? Where do you need us?”

Annette looks from Sylvain to all the others, one-by-one as she assesses them. And then she smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask! 
> 
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